


been wasting all my time (with the devil in the details)

by carrionkid



Series: Devil In The Details-Verse [1]
Category: Daredevil (Comics), Marvel (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1980s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assassins & Hitmen, Bullseye Is IN This Relationship., Complicated Relationships, Elektra Natchios Lives, Enemies to ??????, F/M, Heroes to Villains, I'm Writing This Because I Have Brain Worms, M/M, Vigilante-Centric Semi-Nonsexual Throuple, You've Heard Of The Mountain Goat's Alpha Couple. This Is The Alpha Throuple.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2019-09-16 19:50:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 83,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16960443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carrionkid/pseuds/carrionkid
Summary: the year is 1982 and elektra is not dead. instead, she's working for fisk alongside bullseye. almost everyone's hunting for daredevil but only a handful of people are hunting for matt murdock and sometimes it just so happens that people's motivations intersect. they've both got their sights set on murdock, but elektra's the only one who can get through to him, even if that means dragging him down with her.title is from the placebo song, devil in the details. updates every wednesday. also i have aplaylistof the chapter titles to give you the full vibe of the fic-He’s still breathing.Well, breathing as best he can with a fucking sai sticking out of his guts.A lesser man, astupiderman, would think she missed the mark on account of the fact he’s still lucid enough to be thinking about this predicament and all, but he knows better. She’s just as good as he is. Blade passed right by all the important parts. She wants him alive.





	1. you can rely on the old man's money

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> title comes from rich girl by hall and oates

He’s still breathing.

 

Well, breathing as best he can with a fucking sai sticking out of his guts.

 

A lesser man, a  _ stupider  _ man, would think she missed the mark on account of the fact he’s still lucid enough to be thinking about this predicament and all, but he knows better. She’s just as good as he is. Blade passed right by all the important parts. She wants him alive.

 

It’s a reflection of exactly what he was gonna do, like she read his mind or some shit like that. Whether it’s a kinder action is up for debate.

 

She’s good, but not better, no, no, no one’s better than he is.

 

He got in more than a couple good hits, put up a hell of a fight. Almost had her dead to rights, but…

 

That’s the problem, isn’t it.

 

He doesn’t miss, except for when he does. Probably why Fisk offered the gig,  _ his  _ gig, to Ms. Tall Dark and Handsome. 

 

Now, he’s pretty sure whatever they did when they were mucking around in his brain didn’t throw him off his game, but you never can tell for sure. He still hits whatever the fuck he wants to, barely has  to think about it, but the not knowing is always there.

 

He’s laughing, terrible wheezing sound jostling the sai just right so the pain finally lets him blackout, eyes rolled back into his head.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up in a hospital.

 

Crooked smile at the sound of beeping monitors, “What’s up, doc? Got the tumor out?”

 

But there aren’t bandages covering his eyes and the only person in the room is Tall Dark and Handsome. She’s in civvies, leaning back on a chair, arms crossed, legs spread, cold glare boring into his skin. If she’s got questions, she’s keeping ‘em to herself. Smart girl.

 

“You coulda killed me,” he says, remembers that wasn’t the point.

 

“Fisk will always fix you,” she speaks, finally, “You are a party trick.”

 

“I’m a killer.”

 

“Same thing,” she shrugs, coolly, clean glint of a blade peering from the lining of her jacket.

 

“Who’s pullin’ your strings, then?”

 

There’s a flash of rage twinkling in her eye, almost quick enough to miss before her face goes stony again. He’s getting under her skin.

 

“You still have a job,” she digs the tip of one sai under her nail like she’s cleaning it, obviously displeased, “I suggest you heal faster.”

 

After tucking the sai back into its hiding place, she slips from the room. It’s a warning. Next time, he won’t make it to a hospital.

 

_ Matt’s girl.  _ That’s what the partner said about Elektra. He wonders what he sees in her, sanctimonious fuck like Murdock. She’s a stone cold killer, got a smile to send a shiver down your spine.

 

He’s still got a pretty good idea of who’s under Red’s mask, everything seems to line up perfectly, just how he likes it. He can see her, the devil on Red’s shoulder, whispering in his ear.

 

It aches worse than the stitches to admit he respects her.

 

She knows how to worm her way into your head. Sure makes him wonder why Fisk always foots the bill. The why shouldn’t matter, he’s getting paid, got a roof over his head, gets the chance to run free. Doesn’t have to worry about finding direction.

 

He could cut and run, has the money to do it more than once. But she’s a link to Murdock, to ol’ Hornhead.

 

So he’ll get better, he’ll pick up some pocket change along the way, and when the moment’s right, he’ll strike.

 

* * *

He takes a four day paid vacation high off his ass on the finest painkillers Fisk’s money can buy. He’s not happy about having to work with Tall Dark and Handsome and the least he can do is take it out on Fisk’s pocketbook. Not like the fucker can’t afford it.

 

On the fifth day, he’s thrown back out on the street.

 

He’s still got a job, at least according to Elektra, but he’s probably gonna have to go beg Fisk for another place to sleep. Sure, he’s got the money to get a place of his own, but Fisk is a name that’s got more power than almost any of his own and nobody’s giving an apartment to Bullseye No-Surname.

 

So he chokes back his pride, bitter as day old blood, and heads for the Kingpin.

 

By now, his escape’s bound to be front page news but when he’s in civvies, he’s just another face in the crowd. Nothing special, just another warm body in a hurry. Only ones to ever pick him out were Red and Murdock, who are sounding more and more like they’re one and the same.

 

When he reaches the skyscraper, he pushes through the revolving doors and saunters up to the secretary’s desk like he owns the damn place. Not gonna give Elektra the satisfaction of digging her way into his head; the girl fights dirty.

 

“I’m here to see Mister Fisk,” he says, leaning against the counter, worrying at the toothpick between his lips with his teeth.

 

Secretary’s wide-eyed, glasses, lipstick smudged slightly, “Do you have an appointment?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Name?”

 

The question catches him off guard, hates to admit that it always does.

 

“S-so I can look you up?” She stammers out, must be a rookie. Fisk only hires the pretty ones.

 

He leans forward, reaches for a pen from the cup on the marble counter, “Y’know what, I’ll just leave a message.”

 

She nods, recovering, “I’ll get you a memo slip!”

 

While she’s got her back to him, he twirls the pen between his fingers, whistling a half remembered refrain. Sounds like Sinatra, but he’s not sure. Eyes scan the room, nice and subtle, catching on a couple suits headed his way.

 

They’re on him by the time the secretary looks back, sliding a paper across the countertop. One of the goons grabs him by the wrist, squeezing til the pen hits the floor. Fisk won’t let him make a scene, not that he wants to, just doesn’t like waiting.

 

He shrugs, feigns apologetic, “Sorry, for the trouble, ma’am. Told you I had an appointment.”

 

The suits manhandle him into the elevator, patting him down as soon as the doors are shut. What do they think? He palmed a few scalpels from the hospital? (He did, but that’s none of their damn business.)

 

“Long time, no see, fellas,” he lifts his arms up, daring them to do anything, having something sharp for them to take just gets ‘em to relax around the other things, “Back and better than ever, good as new, right as rain.”

 

They’re a tough crowd, not that he doesn’t have practice talking to himself.

 

“‘Lektra says I’ve still got a job.”

 

That gets a rise out of one of them. The suit tenses, pauses, leaves a split second opening that he doesn’t even take. It’s a trust game and Fisk doesn’t much like blood on his carpet.

 

But it tells him what he needs to know. Tall Dark and Handsome is already raising nine kinds of Cain around here. Got the goons all up in arms. She’s playing a dangerous game, toeing the tightrope line. Either she’s stupid or smarter than all of them.

 

The elevator door opens directly into the penthouse.

 

First thing Fisk says is, “You’re lucky I didn’t let you bleed out.”

 

Bullseye smiles, flashing gap teeth Fisk’s “offered” to fix a thousand times over, “Can’t get rid of me that easy.”

 

_ You are a party trick,  _ Elektra taunts.

 

Except she doesn’t, he’s just hearing things, and she’s leaning back against the wall looking at him like she knows just what the phantom chatterboxes have to say.

 

He works at the loose button on his shirt, counting the seconds without anyone speaking; someone, can't remember who, told him he'd mess with anything that wasn't bolted down.

 

He folds, wanting to smash the fucking silence, “So what's the job, Fisky?”

 

“You'll have to play nice now,” Fisk scowls, “Since I can't trust you on your own anymore.”

 

“What's that 'sposed to mean?” Bullseye feels the last of the threads snap, rolls the button between his fingers.

 

“You do what Elektra tells you to do until I don't want to crush your windpipe when I see you.”

 

“Fuck you,” he snarls out, lobs the button a quarter of an inch from Fisk's head, thinks about what a shame it'd be if Fisk just turned ever so slightly.

 

It embeds in the reinforced glass, just where he wanted it to. Fisk doesn't even flinch.

 

“Are you done?”

 

He crosses his arms, scowling.

 

“Good. Now get out of my sight and get yourself another shirt.”

 

He stalks back to the elevator, only uncrossing his arms to take a check from one of the suits. The way Fisk treats him has him wondering if he's an assassin or a whore.

 

Elektra slipped in the elevator behind him, but the few seconds it took for him to realize that she did have him seething twice as hard as before. He's off his game, nothing he hates more than slipping up.

 

“Why are  _ you _ here?” He spits.

 

“You know why.”

 

“Don't need you to babysit me while I'm gettin’ another shirt.”

 

“Your taste says otherwise. All that money you have and you dress like,” her nose wrinkles slightly, “ _ That. _ ”

 

So she's slumming it. She's a chameleon, but she can't hide where she came from. It's in the way she moves, the way she talks, the microexpressions of her face. She might be able to fool her marks, but not him.

 

He takes another toothpick from the pack in his pocket, catches it between his teeth, whistles his way through the refrain of Rich Girl. Elektra's eyes flick over to him and he smiles.

 

* * *

They end up in a shop he's never even heard of, skin crawling before they're even past the foyer. He could buy anything in the shop, not that he'd want to, but he still feels out of place. Exposed, best word for it.

 

He's got money, more than he knows what to do with. Fisk's apartments come fully furnished, so long as you don't mind blood spatter on the upholstery. He doesn't. Almost feels like home, but that's half remembered at best and he's happy to keep it that way.

 

“Stop that,” Elektra hisses, holding a shirt up to him like they're real people doing real people things.

 

She shakes her head, holding up another shirt as he speaks through gritted teeth, “Stop  _ what?” _

 

“You look like a petty thief getting his hands on something nice for the first time.”

 

Tall Dark and Handsome looks like she belongs here, probably been here before if she used to live in New York. Every inch of her is carefully manicured, nothing out of place. It's a damn good mask, but he remembers the way her hair fell loose, framing the rage in her dark eyes when she stabbed him. He wonders if Matty's ever seen her like that.

 

She looks like a model; perfectly wavy hair pinned into place, every piece of clothing tailored, nails lacquered, dark like arterial blood. No one knows she's a weapon.

 

Bullseye doesn't have to worry about keeping the two halves separate. He's not quite whole, but he's got it easier than Elektra or Red.

 

“You need something distinct,” Elektra frowns, “You need to look more professional.”

 

“I get plenty of jobs as I am. People don't care ‘bout the look, just the results.”

 

“Try this,” Elektra passes over a black dress shirt, white collar, “We need to cultivate your image.”

 

“What fucking image?” He growls out, “Point is to blend in. Not all of us are as stupid as you.”

 

Anyone who takes a look at her would know exactly who she is, she's even got the fucking scarf wrapped around her perfect hair like she's trying to be Audrey Hepburn. 

 

“I ‘blend in’ perfectly fine,” she smiles, a cheshire cat type thing that makes him feel like he's not in on the joke, “The only people to recognize me are the ones who should be very very afraid of me.”

 

He doesn't have a comeback for that. He wants to be anywhere else than here.

 

The saleswoman who's been watching them since they walked in finally moves in for the kill, “Are you finding everything okay?”

 

His nails dig into his palms, grits his teeth as hard as he can; there's a reason he doesn't deal with shit like this. Elektra plants herself between him and the saleswoman like a wall, leaning over her like she's playing with her food.

 

“Yes, darling, we're doing fine,” she ditches the accent effortlessly, giving a cold laugh that feels like a command, “You know how men are,  _ don't you?” _

 

The saleswoman looks uncomfortable but plays along, giggling like a schoolgirl, “Well, I'll leave you to it! You look like you've got it under control!” 

 

They’re alone again in seconds; saleswoman ducked out of there quick as lightening.

 

“You are getting the shirt,” she says, same commanding tone, accent back in play.

 

It hasn’t struck him how little he knows about her until now. Is this accent the real one, or is it the other? Does she remember which was the original? Maybe it’s none of the above, maybe it’s lost, maybe misplaced.

 

Bullseye has misplaced many things along the way. The original name, not that he wanted it, the way his mother moved, the before and after of his father’s death, all the blank space gaps between then  and now.

 

The feeling of something in his hands brings him back. He curls his fingers around whatever it is even tighter, and tries to stop seeing without seeing.

 

“Cufflinks,” Elektra says.

 

He opens the little box mindlessly; they’re round, black, halved by a white stripe. Not quite his but close enough.

 

“I give ‘em three days before they’re gone forever.”

 

It looks like it just burns her up inside that he’d end up losing the cufflinks, even though she’s got the money to replace them a thousand times over. He’s gotten used to never growing too fond of anything he can pick up.

 

“We have more to do today,” she slips back to stone cold, “Finish this quickly, Benjamin.”

 

He's got his hand wrapped around her forearm in an instant, nails digging into the soft leather of her long gloves.

 

“Don't call me that. Don't you  _ dare _ .”

 

She smiles again, holds his attention long enough that he doesn't notice her moving. Only lets him know when she wants him to, fingers tight around his wrist, thumb digging into the soft spot between his tendons until he's forced to let go of her.

 

“Do not touch me,” she keeps up the smile, more like a bared teeth threat, “If you want to retain function in both your hands.”

 

He falls docile, focus directed entirely to the feeling of her thumb between his tendons. There must be something broken inside of him; same thing happened with Red more than a couple times. It's easy til they're close enough to hit back.

 

Voice pathetic and thin, “Don't hurt me.”

 

“Do not give me a reason to.”

 

Sometimes, it feels more like deja vu, more like a memory. That's worse than just plain old fashioned cowardice.

 

And then they're outside, back on the street, and he's back in his body, and the bags are hooked between his fingers.

 

“Don't tell  _ anyone  _ about this,” he hisses, knows better than to grab her this time.

 

“About what? About you being a coward? About you bending to a woman?”

 

It's a trap, she wants him to give her more than that, to correct her so she can get something out of him. They're both learning each other like a mark, but he's real damn hard to read.

 

* * *

They're sitting in the back of a cab when Elektra almost seems to soften, folds her shoulders forward in a way that almost makes her look delicate.

 

“You mentioned your father?” Her voice is quiet, almost reverent, and he's half willing to risk losing one of his hands just to knock the sound out of her mouth.

 

He doesn't remember doing that, which means it must have happened in the gap between the store and the street and she's been waiting for somewhere private to do this. Still kept a witness around, probably knows he doesn't kill unless he's being paid. This could be an exception.

 

“My father is dead.”

 

She's staring down at her gloves, anyone would think she was vulnerable but it's more like she's playing at vulnerability. She's perpetually on guard, ready to lash out. No doubt she's got the sais stowed somewhere on her.

 

“He was killed, some time ago. I am looking for the ones that killed him.”

 

So that's what this is. She thinks they can connect. She thinks she can build some rapport. It's becoming more and more likely that she's stupid, rather than smart.

 

He's laughing, silent action building up sound until she realizes it. Laughing and laughing and she's glaring at him but he can't stop. There's something like tears in his eyes, tracking down his cheeks.

 

She thinks they're the  _ same. _

 

“Elektra,” he catches his breath, lips curling to a smile, “I killed that bastard when I was fourteen.”

 

She snarls, must've hit a nerve, flash of white teeth, “Your own  _ father? _ ”

 

“Got tired of waiting for bruises an’ burns to heal.”

 

He remembers the target and the trailer and the trigger. Remembers the blood and the blank eyes and the time spent under the same roof as the empty body 'cos there was nowhere else to go. Only left 'cos someone would come looking and he didn't want to touch dad to close the eyes and he didn't want dad staring at him all day and hiding the body meant he had to touch the body and so he left.

 

“Fisk is  _ right,” _ she's grabbing at him again, less controlled than before, “You are an  _ animal!” _

 

He's got one foot in the cab and one foot in the trailer, being stretched thin between here and a memory. It happens sometimes, frenetic visions so vivid, almost feel like hallucinations but those were supposed to be over. Maybe they never actually fixed him.

 

Someone's got an arm pressed to his throat, halfway choking him with the other hand poised as if to claw his eyes out.

 

“Please, don't hurt me,” he says, doesn't remember which one he's talking to.

 

The cab lurches to a stop so fast his head slams back against the seat. He’s fumbling at the door handle, can’t seem to remember how it works.

 

“Coulda given me a bit more warning,” the Cabbie growls.

 

“Yes, I am very sorry.” 

 

“Sure don’t sound like you’re sorry.”

 

Her lip twitches as she’s counting out the fare, passes it over.

 

“Don’t tip like you’re sorry, either.”

 

Elektra sets her jaw and stabs the sai into the back of his neck, right at the base of the brain stem. The blade cuts through the partition like fuckin’ butter and if it wouldn’t be the last thing he does, he’d take ‘em and make a day out of it.

 

She’s matter of fact, not a hair out of place, “He knew too much.”

 

Bullseye shrugs, “Can’t kill me so you killed him instead.”

 

He reaches through to the front seats, angling himself just right to feel for Elektra’s fare. He hands it back to her, but there’s no use in letting an opportunity go to waste, so he runs through his pockets until he finds a paperclip. It’s easy to reach back through the open space in the divider, work at the lock box. He’s delicate when he needs to be.

 

Elektra knees him in the side, “Move. People will notice soon.”

 

The lock pops free and he grabs some of the cash, folding it to tuck in his pockets. Then, he slips out onto the sidewalk, followed by Elektra. They’re a few blocks away from Fisk’s building, probably to make it seem like they aren’t connected to him, like they’re just part of the lunch rush.

 

“I would have tipped better,” Elektra’s voice is equal parts defensive and haughty, “Had he not been so irritating.”

 

He throws his head back and laughs, “I think you tipped him  _ just fine _ , Rich Girl.”


	2. to serve and not to speak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i'm updating a bit early bc holiday hours are KICKING MY ASS, gotta wake up at 7:30am to go into work at 8:30am
> 
> the title comes from fire in the hole by steely dan

Fisk won’t let him back upstairs and the suits won’t let him out of their sight so he waits outside the skyscraper and thinks about smokes. Hasn’t gotten around to picking up a pack yet, and he can’t just leave now because God knows what’ll happen if Tall Dark and Handsome finishes up and he isn’t down here waiting for her.

 

He palmed a roll of nickels from the Cabbie, starts working the paper loose with his fingers. Gets the first nickel free, flips it between his knuckles. That doesn’t hold his attention for long, so he moves on to flicking them at the pigeons skittering across the sidewalk. Not aiming for the head, no, they’ve never done anything wrong save for being annoying. Just at their feet, making them scatter.

 

He’s moved on to people, aiming right for the ankle bones, by the time she walks through the revolving door. 

 

“What are you  _ doing? _ ” 

 

She smacks his hand, hard as she can, and the nickels fly everywhere, clattering against the concrete. It’s so careless, makes his skin crawl, no rhyme or reason to the way they land. He’s staring at the coins on the ground, trying to make them link up into something, anything, like those stupid fuckin’ constellations.

 

Elektra’s explaining something but none of it’s getting through. Only thing he catches is a phrase-- _ we’ve got a mark-- _ hangs onto it as tight as he can. He hasn’t had a real job in months, partly ‘cos of jail, partly ‘cos of the hospital. Trying to kill Tall Dark and Handsome doesn’t count; that was off the clock.

 

The coins aren’t lining up into anything, at least nothing he can see. He shifts slightly, careful not to step on them, careful not to move them. Elektra’s still talking, not usually that chatty but now she won’t shut up. He tilts his head to the side, trying to get a different perspective.

 

“Could be a map,” he mutters.

 

“What?”

 

“The coins,” he gestures, “Could be a map.”

 

“Why would they be?” She quirks one eyebrow up, arms crossed.

 

It feels like he’s under a microscope, like she’s interrogating him. Dark eyes boring holes into him, making him squirm. It’s why he works alone. Don’t have to be ready to give answers if there’s no one around to ask questions. He’s good at finding trajectories; at the base level, only thing anyone can be is a moving object.

 

Elektra drops the question before he gets the chance to piece together a response. Fisk doesn’t care about the why or the how, just wants the results, and even he doesn’t know for sure how he finds the way the chips will fall.

 

“We need to strategize,” Elektra walks through the scattering of nickels, blurs the lines even further, “Fisk has another apartment for you. We can plan there.”

 

Of course she won’t let him find out where her base of operations is. It’s the first trick of the trade, keep your home close, keep it hidden. You need somewhere where no one can touch you. He could find out where she lived, make her feel just as exposed as he does, if he wanted to, but he doesn’t care about her enough to put in the effort.

 

Still, it makes him seethe that Elektra's probably right. Fisk is holding the leash, that's why he covers the apartments, why he foots the medical bills, why he tells him to get a fucking new shirt and Bullseye fucking does it. He likes the direction and the paycheck that comes with being an assassin on retainer, but not much else.

 

“Here are your keys.”

 

She looks reluctant as hell to give them over, grip like a vice and he's gotta pull them out of her fingers.

 

“I  _ won't _ lose them. I've had an apartment before.”

 

Elektra continues on without deigning it a response, “The apartment is being cleaned now. It should be finished once we get there.”

 

It's hard to tell what kind of cleaning she's talking about when it comes to Fisk. He's taken up residence in more than a few apartments leased to dead men. Mostly, he's just hoping the cleaners are good enough at their jobs that he won't have to put up wallpaper so he can stop seeing the kill play out in the residual blood splatter.

 

“No cab this time,” he shoots her a dark glare.

 

“ _ Fine.” _

 

She's smart, she's practical. He noticed hours back that her boots are flat soled, not half bad for running in. She's tall enough that everyone thinks she's in heels. Long gloves so she doesn't leave fingerprints and everything fitted perfectly to not inhibit mobility. She came ready for a fight. She'll be just fine walking a few miles.

 

* * *

The apartment’s on the nicer side of things, not his usual set up. He’s not in Fisk’s good graces so it must just be a spur of the moment thing. Fisk wanted someone out of his hair and Bullseye needed a place to sleep. It’s convenience, not care. 

 

Elektra struts through the lobby like she owns the place. It’s more her speed than his, and the out of place feeling stings. People are watching them from every angle, thinking they’re being subtle about it. It’s the kind of place where the walls have ears.

 

They’re the only ones in the elevator, so he leans back on his heels, hands in his jacket pockets, “How much is the contract for?”

 

“Three million,” she says, barely sounds like she’s talking about killing, “You get half.”

 

“ _ Jesus _ ,” he scowls, “Barely pocket change at that rate.”

 

“You are not in any position to negotiate.”

 

“Yeah, but  _ you were _ .”

 

Elektra works at fixing her lipstick, pausing only to speak, “You are far too demanding. It scares off employers. Build rapport, then ask for big sums.”

 

The elevator stops on the seventeenth floor and they head out. Natural, even pace, not running or lingering. They’re regular people in a regular apartment building, talking about work, heading upstairs  for an off the clock drink. Maybe it looks like they’re having an affair, maybe it looks like they’re running a con, just as long as it doesn’t look like they’re assassins.

 

He unlocks the door, crosses the threshold without bothering to hold it for Elektra. It’s a nice place, big windows, lots of trinkets lined up on display. It belonged to someone older, proclivity for collecting, not much family left to come looking. Perfect place to lay low.

 

Elektra’s stripping off the jacket as he kicks back on the couch. It’s not soft, picked for decoration instead of practicality. Elektra unwraps the scarf, lets her hair fall down; even then, it still doesn’t look out of place.

 

“Who’s the mark?”

 

Elektra perches in an armchair, looking like she’s seconds from running, “Were you listening before?”

 

He dodges the question, “We need to start fresh. Who’s the mark?”

 

“A journalist. Not as receptive to bribes as Fisk would like.”

 

Now that’s a start. Too broad for him to really work with it, but he’s interested. Journalists usually have nice pens, well made, solid weight to them, and he’s got a soft spot for irony. You’re either in Fisk’s pocket or your days are numbered. Probably why he’s still sticking around.

 

“So, who is it? What’s the newspaper? Who lives in the house? What’s the commute route?”

 

“That does not matter.”

 

“Course it does,” he’s got one of the little angel figures from the coffee table in his hands, tossing it up then catching it, “All of it matters. You gotta learn the mark to get it done right.”

 

“It’s a waste of time,” Elektra’s hands tense, reflexively reaching for the sai, “We have the address, we have the picture. We should act now and leave our schedules free for a bigger job.”

 

“Journalists are a flighty species. Spook one of them and the whole pack goes wild. Nobody wants ‘em looking into deaths under suspicious circumstances.”

 

Elektra’s got the sai out now, resting on her crossed legs, polishing the blade with her scarf, “That is not our problem.”

 

Fisk wants quiet,” he says, “And what Fisk wants, he gets.”

 

“If he wants quiet, he should pay extra.”

 

He laughs, rolling the figure between his palms, “And you said I was ‘too demanding’. I’m a goddamn specialist.”

 

Elektra wrinkles her nose at  _ specialist,  _ and he lobs the little porcelain angel at the wall, just over her shoulder. She’s faster than the average person, lightning quick twitch of her hand brings the sai up to halve the figure perfectly. The action’s so fast that it doesn’t even shatter, just falls to the carpet behind the armchair.

 

“This is easy, it’ll barely take a couple days. We’ll be open for another gig by Friday.”

 

She purses her lips, mulling it over. He’s seen her fight, even been on the losing side once. She’s a force to be reckoned with, would be worse if she was actually quiet about it, but she seems to be squarely in the ‘there’s no witnesses if no one’s alive’ line of thought.

 

“It’s getting dark,” he continues, “We can check the layout of the office, find out who lives with the mark. Gotta learn ‘em before we can kill ‘em.”

 

“Marks all die the same. It does not matter.”

 

It’s not getting through to her and he’s just about had it with playing nice for the night. He slams his fist down on the coffee table, knocking over another one of the porcelain angels.

 

“I’m going out there and you can either follow me like you’re ‘sposed to or deal with Fisk when he finds out you didn’t.”

 

Elektra doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look up from the sai she’s still polishing. It’s infuriating, makes his blood boil, knowing that Fisk chose her over him. She’s good at  _ killing,  _ Bullseye’s good at  _ assassinations.  _ Sure, there have been a few times where he hasn’t been careful, when he’s gotten sloppy, back when ‘Hell’s empty, all the devils are here,’ and all that. But he’s better than ever now that the tumor’s out.

 

Tall Dark and Handsome is still sitting pretty, looking just as smug as all the little angels. If he sticks around any longer, she’s liable to get some porcelain in her perfect fucking face. She’s got some nerve calling him an animal when she doesn’t even see the worth in learning a mark.

 

He gets up, heads for the bedroom. Knowing Fisk, there’s a balcony with a fire-escape somewhere in the apartment, which makes it easy to get in and out without anyone seeing. At the end of the bed is a hope chest, box tied with twine resting on top of it.

 

First thing he’ll do after this job is get some more throwing knives. All he’s got is a pen knife, which he uses to cut the twine loose before opening the box. It’s the costume, probably a new one since the old one’s cut up from Elektra stabbing him. He’ll get her back for that, one day.

 

It feels good, feels right, to put it back on. That’s something he’s got in common with Red, neither of them can seem to give up the mask. So long as he’s out there, Daredevil will be too.

 

* * *

He comes back to the living room to find Elektra with the scarf tied around her head and sais resting in the thigh holster, just showing slightly through the slit in her skirt. Not quite civvies, not quite costume. Interesting. He didn’t think she’d be one to be scared of Fisk. Even more interesting if the motivation’s something other than fear.

 

“You see a balcony in here? ‘Cos there isn’t one in the bedroom.”

 

She gives him a look that tells him she hasn’t been bothered to leave the living room. He bolts for the kitchen, no balcony there either. Back to the bedroom to check the bathroom, still no luck. There’s no other rooms on the window side of the building. All the big fucking windows in the apartment, and there isn’t even a balcony.

 

“Fuck,” he stalks back into the living room, “No subtle way out.”

 

“So,” Elektra says in that damned cool voice of hers, “We go out the way we came in.”

 

“People are bound to notice, we’re not ‘sposed to be here, we stick out ‘cos we’re new.”

 

“Take off the ridiculous mask, put the civilian clothes over top of the suit, and walk out like you are supposed to be here. It is  _ easy. _ ”

 

He does as he's told, pulling back the mask and digging out the new shirt from the box it's wrapped in. It fits perfectly, even with the suit under it, which really makes him wonder how Elektra figured that out just by looking at him.

 

He's got black trousers to match, probably picked for him while he was checked out back at the store. It's a good look, you can barely tell the suit's under it, just looks like he's got gloves.

 

They head downstairs, dressed for a night on the town. Elektra's hand is hooked in the crook of his elbow, holding onto his arm in a gentle threat. They're blending in, just like she said they would. No one pays any more attention to them than they ought to.

 

Outside, he catches a glimpse of himself in the glass panels of the building. She really was right, much as it stings to admit it, the shirt looks right, looks like  _ him.  _ He's not sure if he's keen on the idea of people recognizing him out of costume, though.

 

“The office is this way,” Elektra interrupts, “We should stay low profile as long as we can.”

 

“Uh-huh, got it.”

 

They're moving carefully, deliberately, and Elektra's got a fierceness to her that has everyone moving out of their way. People chattering around them, most of them sound like they think they recognize her, and she's just grinning like she's eating it up. 

 

She's a fame hound, which is what's gnawing at him so much. Everything seems like it should lead to her being a model or an actress or some shit like that. What knocked her off course and into being an assassin?

 

He knows  _ exactly  _ how he got here, even if some of the details are hazy. He's always been heading down this path; she's a mystery. One day he'll pick her apart, get to the bottom of what she is, and then he'll rest easy for a week or two.

 

* * *

The paper is small, an independent gig. It'll be lucky if it lasts three years. Which means this is a matter of pride for Fisk. No way this paper could even think about touching him.

 

The lights are all off and it looks like everyone's gone home, but you never know for sure. He starts a lap around the building, no movement inside. Elektra's hanging back; it's hard to tell, but she looks bored, like she's humoring him. He won't be able to case the place enough to get in tonight, but he can get a sense for all the entrances. 

 

There's the large lobby out front, big doors and big windows; side access door, heavy duty metal; and an emergency exit, likely alarmed, right near the fire-escape.

 

He'd really like to get inside the mark's office, find out what makes him tick. It's the little things that come in handy, help predict what they're gonna do. Nothing happens randomly, there's always a sequence leading up to impact.

 

He finishes the lap around, starts a second one to check the buildings nearby. They'll only come in handy if the mark has a cubicle near a window but he likes to cover all his bases.

 

They're in an industrial complex; most of the surrounding offices are about the same height as this one. He'd prefer something taller but the accountant's firm across the street has good cover and a straight shot to the northern side of the newspaper.

 

“Got as much as I can tonight,” he says, voice low enough that only Elektra can hear.

 

“And what, exactly, did you get out of,” she gestures, lip curled, “This?”

 

“We probably don't want to do it here unless we gotta, too many variables to get it done carefully. The buildings nearby aren't high enough or don't have enough cover and we dunno where the mark's office is. I could get him on the sidewalk, but that only works when there aren't bystanders gawking around. I never miss, but that doesn't mean they can't get in the way.”

 

“No matter what you learn of the location, shooting a mark is still not taking care of it quietly.”

 

She's a fucking hypocrite, slicing ‘n’ dicing isn't taking care of it quietly either, but he'll let it slide because it's time for his favorite part.

 

“I told you, I'm a fuckin’ specialist,” he smirks halfway, watching her face, “And you're right, that's too loud. That's why I don't shoot 'em.”

 

He relishes in the fact that she looks  _ confused _ , that her perfect composure is finally cracking.

 

“I know you have a gun on you,” she says, “I have the magazine in my boot right now.”

 

He frowns, didn't notice her palm it from him. Maybe she can be quiet; that changes things 

 

He recovers, launching back into the explanation, “Job like this, we need it to look natural, need something the coroners won't know to look for. It helps if our boy doesn't have any enemies, which I  doubt he does, save for Fisk, since I've never heard of him before.”

 

“And how are you going to accomplish that?”

 

“Well,” he laughs, “I haven't done the 'toothpick through the ear and into the brain’ trick since, hm, one of Owsley's contacts turned state's witness.”

 

She looks downright livid, which means she underestimated him. Feels good to show off, but now he has to keep the rest of his cards close to his chest. Having a leg up on her will come in handy one day.

 

“We are done here.”

 

She turns tail, shoes clicking on the sidewalk. They're the only ones under the streetlight and she's comfortable enough to let out that animal look in her eye. He might be the one who has to watch her, especially after what she pulled with the cab driver back there. It'll draw some attention; there aren't many people being killed with sais in New York.

 

So he follows after her, partly because he wants to see where she goes and partly because it’s his head on the chopping block if she fucks anything up. Fisk likes her, he’s not sure if Fisk likes him, at least currently.

 

She marches down the street like she’s heading off to battle. There’s something eating at her and it can’t just be the fact that he’s actually competent.

 

He gives her the benefit of the doubt for a few blocks before speaking up, “This isn’t the way to the mark’s house.”

 

“I am aware of that. Go home, our work today is complete.”

 

So she’s gone rogue. He can appreciate that. But with a leading line like that, he can’t turn back now. It’s like she wants him to follow, figures he’ll keep his mouth shut if he’s looking just as guilty as she is.

 

* * *

She’s purposely dodging crowds. No patience for the masses now, it’d seem. They aren’t on a clear route either, dodging and threading between slums and residential blocks and markets. Maybe she’s trying to shake him.

 

They’ve hit one of the rougher areas of town. She’s gotta know he’s following her but she doesn’t seem to care. Elektra reaches a burnt out apartment building, half-skeletonized, and climbs up the fire-escape. He hangs down, watching her on the way up, spark of red against the black of night.

 

It’s easy to keep an eye on her, she sticks out like a sore thumb. He waits a minute before heading up after her. It feels good to be out again, even with the cold of the night air. Getting up to the roof means weaving through weak spots in the rusted staircase, which ends up giving her a bit of a head start.

 

He can still see the red of her scarf as he jumps to the next closest building. No matter where she’s going, why she’s letting him follow, it’ll be useful to have this in his back pocket.


	3. he's striking up violence in me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the chapter title is from 'pull out the pin' by kate bush

Elektra stops atop one of the highest buildings in the block. The wind’s playing with her scarf and she’s posed, hands on her hips. She’s exposed without being vulnerable, way she moves tells him she’s got full control of the situation. He hangs back, perched on the edge of a rooftop with a building’s worth of distance between them.

 

It’s strange; she’s watching without moving, still like she’s frozen in time. There’s a reasoning to this, he just has to figure it out.

 

He goes for the stupid cufflinks, plucking them from the shirtsleeves to roll between his fingers. There’s a nice weight to them, even if one end’s heavier than the other. He knows how to course correct, wouldn’t be this good if he didn’t.

 

There’s nothing going on save for the sound of traffic below. She’s still staring into the wind and he has a feeling it’s gonna be a long night.

 

Ten minutes in and he’s playing back through the route they took to get here. There has to be something in the path, something to offer an explanation. Maybe she’s still trying to drive him off; if he’s cold, she’s bound to be freezing. Or she’s reporting back to one of Fisk’s lackeys, telling ‘em about the day, but she wouldn’t be so dodgy about it. Fisk loves the illusion of clean business, meetings in  big rooms with nice suits. 

 

So it’s something personal. Maybe looking for leads on her father’s killers. Or she’s got another employer; she blends in so damn well, he wouldn’t put it past her being a spy. Like he said, it’d make more sense for her to be an actor. Or--

 

Or she’s looking for Red.

 

The Cabbie was a calling card, a taunt,  _ come and get me, baby _ . 

 

He knew the wounds would draw attention, but that’s what she  _ wanted. _

 

And he won’t even rat her out because he’s just as interested in Red as she is.

 

Fuck, she’s been playing him all along.

 

He should've seen it a mile away; she doesn't work with others unless she gets something out of it. At the end of the day, they're both working for Fisk because he's got access to Red.

 

He's right, though. Red swings in after another few minutes. He can't quite make out his face but his body language says anger. She killed, he doesn't; she crossed the one line he never will.

 

But it worked, she got him.

 

She's leading the dance, twisting Red around until he's between her and Bullseye. Whatever her goal is, she's still concerned with protecting herself. Probably wagering that he won't hurt Red, still thinking they're the same.

 

The metal of the cufflinks has warmed up in his hands by now, heat leaching through the fabric of his suit. It would be so easy to end this right now, put them both out of their misery. 

 

Red's got his back turned to Bullseye, doesn't even know he's there. He sets to juggling the cufflinks, thinking about the merits of putting one through Red's skull. The look on Elektra's face when the body goes down, blood on her perfect pale skin; one fucking night where he doesn't spend it thinking about Red; getting him all to himself, not for Fisk, not for Elektra, not for anyone else.

 

But she's right. She's always right. He wants Red alive.

 

_ You win this one, Elektra. _

 

She's winning Red over. He can't tell what either of them are saying, but he's letting her get close. Not too close, but it's like courtship.  _ Matt's girl.  _ They're moving like lovers, she catches his wrist and he doesn't pull away. Red's broken his wrist for less than that.

 

She leans in close, whispering something in his ear, and Red folds against her. He's clinging to her for dear life and she looks just as cold as ever. And then she's looking dead at Bullseye, eyes dark, corner of her lip quirked up.

 

Not only does she know he's here, but she knows exactly where he is.

 

He freezes, forgets to catch the cufflinks. The moment drags on for an eternity, her eyes digging right into his.

 

The cufflinks hit the awning below, skittering to the sidewalk.

 

He leans forward and lets himself fall off the edge. Ends up going through the awning, but that's the least of his worries. He still lands on his feet, little bit bruised but as long as he can run, he's golden.

 

He takes off, scrambling to the point of almost tripping. Hates that she's got him this way, but coward is just a synonym for smart and he'd like to live another day. 

 

She's still busy with Red, at least he's hoping that's the case, which should give him a head start. If she wasn't distracted by something else, she probably would've already found him. He knew Elektra was aware of him, didn't think she knew right where he was.

 

* * *

Even with the convoluted path they took, he knows exactly how to get back to his apartment. He's winded, ran the whole damn way like she was hot on his heels.

 

Usually, his hands are steady but he can barely get the key in the lock. It clicks into place and he lets out a high, manic laugh. 

 

She's going to kill him this time, he just knows it. Best way to get to Red.

 

He locks the door behind him. Only makes it two steps before he checks it and locks it again. It's pointless, she knows where he lives, same as Fisk does.

 

He needs a drink to take off the edge. Rich fucks always have good booze. 

 

Has to tear apart the kitchen to find it but he manages a bottle of bourbon and a glass.

 

His hands are still shaking but he doesn't spill a drop as he maneuvers the bourbon into the glass. That sends him laughing again. Never fucking misses, ‘cept for what's right in front of him.

 

_ You really thought you were the one in control here? _

 

The phantom Elektra is back to taunt him and if he wasn't so used to hallucinations, he'd think she was a fucking telepath.

 

_ You are a party trick. You are alive because he wants you to be. _

 

He knocks back the drink, pours another.

 

_ You need someone to pull your strings. You are useless without someone to set your course. _

 

“ _SHUT_ _UP!_ Leave me _alone_!”

 

He throws the glass at the wall, hard as he can. Watches the slow motion shatter, enough force behind it that shards embed in the wall.

 

_ Benjamin… _

 

He whirls around, growl caught between his teeth, she's not just taunting him, now she's watching him too.

 

He curls his fingers around the neck of the bottle, raising it up. He'll fucking smash it, burn this place down. 

 

And then he's covered in bourbon.

 

Knows he didn't throw it, the neck of it is still tight in his grasp. But the rest of it? That's gone.

 

He drops the glass.

 

“Wh--uh,” he hears glass crunch under his feet.

 

Looks around, sees the sai in the wall.

 

She's real. She's fucking real.

 

She's real and he almost smashed that bottle over her head. She's gonna kill him.

 

“No, no, nononono,” he's digging his nails into the scar on the side of his head, “This was 'sposed to  _ stop _ .”

 

“Are you finished?”

 

Elektra’s looking at him, brows furrowed. She doesn’t look particularly angry, more confused.

 

“I, uh,” he pauses; who the fuck asks something like that?

 

“Yes?”

 

“I’m covered in bourbon.”

 

Elektra gives him a serious look, “You are.”

 

“Are you gonna kill me?”

 

“It would be very hard to explain.”

 

Bullseye nods, “And you don't want Fisk to know about meeting up with Red.”

 

She grimaces, “Correct.”

 

“Which he'd find out somehow if he starts asking questions. So,” he shrugs, “Since you aren't gonna kill me, wanna drink?”

 

She gives him a look like he's out of his fucking mind, which he might be.

 

“There's more bottles than  _ that one _ ,” he gestures to the glass scattered across the tile.

 

He grabs another one from the pantry, not bothering to check what it is. As long as it'll get him drunk, he's happy. He pours Tall Dark and Handsome a glass as she pulls the sai out of the wall.

 

After passing the glass off to her, he keeps the bottle for himself, holding onto it tight. She's got a wary look in her eyes, like he'll try the same move again. Instead, he heads out to the living room, all  but collapsing on the couch.

 

“You have terrible taste in wine.”

 

Elektra's staying close, making sure he doesn't have an opening to strike. She's smart and that's why she's still alive but he's tired.

 

“Shut up and drink it or don't.”

 

He punctuates it with a long swig from the bottle. She's right, as always, it tastes like shit. She knocks back the glass without a word, gives the sense that she’s just as rattled as he is which is unexpected.

 

“So,” he says, bottle resting against his chest.

 

He lets the word hang in the air, watching to see if she’ll look up, or react, or do anything at all other than sit silently. He usually prefers smoking to drinking, keeps his mind clearer and his hands busier, but tonight’s an exception.

 

Elektra doesn’t take the bait, so he tries again.

 

“Murdock's Red, right?” He asks, miming horns with his index fingers on either side of his head.

 

The flick of her eyes, the slight grunt, the way her fingers grip the glass, knuckles turning white, is an answer enough. 

 

Well isn't that just  _ perfect _ . It’s not that he doesn’t like being right, he does, but it could make things complicated. His head tips back until he’s looking up at the ceiling, mapping the ridges of the stucco, and he thinks about the rooftop. The way they moved, the way they touched, the way Red held onto her.

 

“And you love him,” he turns his head enough to watch her.

 

“I hate him.”

 

There's a scowl on her face, she'd be colder if she didn't care.

 

“Don't we all.”

 

It looks like she wants to say more, worrying at her lip with her teeth. He takes another drink, chasing a better feeling than bruises and muscles tied in knots with nerves. It isn’t exactly working, but it’s the thought that counts.

 

“Did you hate him when you were whisperin’ in his ear? When he was holdin’ onto you?”

 

Elektra sets her jaw and the glass shatters in her hand.

 

He’s pushing her. Maybe he wants her to snap.

 

She opens her fist, flexes her fingers, lets the glass fall to the carpet. He watches the fragments land, watches the blood that follows. Nice, thick drops, perfectly round because there’s no force behind them.

 

“Tell me about him,” he says, transfixed on the way she’s holding her hand, like the glass is still there, “About Matt.”

 

She closes her fist, drawing it close to her stomach, and gnashes her teeth a few times. It looks like she’s trying to remember how to string words together.

 

“What do you want to know?”

 

She speaks, but it seems to take all the effort in the world.

 

“Everything. Wanna know him inside and out.”

 

He’d like to get inside Red’s head, maybe make a home out of it for a while. It doesn’t make sense and it’s eating Bullseye alive. The lawyer, the liar, who clings to the rules by day and plays judge and jury at night. Never executioner, so he must buy into it all at least a little.

 

“I think I loved him once, but we were both very young.”

 

If he closes his eyes, he can see it. Red’s remarkable, dedicated, one of a kind, probably got into a good school but he doesn’t act like he comes from money. They meet by chance, a scholarship banquet, an internship, a dinner to show off the poster boy. She’s beautiful, wealthy, somewhere between stupid and self-destructive. The course is set. They collide. Both think they walk away just fine,  not a scratch at all.

 

That’s easy, and she can confirm it no problem. He just has to trick her into letting it slip.

 

The other questions are harder. Was that what knocked her off track or was she already headed this way? When did the Devil come out to play? How did any of them end up here?

 

She’s staring at him, but her eyes are glazed over. He won’t get any more out of her tonight, but he’s already desperate for another fix. Somehow, she’s still coming out on top.

 

“I’m gonna kill him one day.”

 

Elektra quirks up the corner of her lip, lets out a hollow little laugh, “He will kill himself before you ever get the chance.”

 

Then, it’s like a switch flips. She stands up, slips back into her jacket, careful to not get blood on the fabric. Her eyes are clearer, glare just as dark as ever, and she looks him over with a scowl.

 

“I suggest you clean yourself up and sleep. We are meeting Fisk first thing tomorrow morning. I will be here to escort you,” she stops by the door, “And please, don’t try to attack me again. It will hurt you more than it will ever hurt me.”

 

He tips the bottle back, taking another long drink. So Red’s self-destructive. That answers some questions, helps everything fit closer into place. He casts his eyes back up to the cracks in the stucco, the stains on the off white plaster, and keeps drinking until they’re blurry.

 

* * *

The first thing he’s aware of is the weight of dread in the pit of his stomach. He doesn’t know what time it is, or what time Elektra is supposed to be here, and he didn’t get cleaned up at all. She won’t be happy, Fisk won’t be happy, and that’s something he wants to avoid at all costs. People hire him  _ because  _ he keeps them happy. It’s good, it’s safe.

 

He all but falls off the couch, body aching in the memory of falling off the building last night. He’s hungover, but he remembers what happened crystal clear. The shirt’s dirty and he’s dirty and Fisk didn’t like the other one because of the missing buttons. So he strips out of the new shirt, careful with each of the buttons, and heads for the kitchen.

 

He’ll wash it and it’ll be fine. It’ll be good. No one will know.

 

He can hear glass under his feet as he moves across the kitchen. That’s not important. What’s important is the sink, the water should be on, but he doesn’t know what he’ll do if it isn’t. He turns the handle and it sputters to life.

 

The water runs hot to the point of steaming in a matter of minutes and he holds the shirt under it, scrubbing the fabric against itself with his hands. The sun’s starting to rise, light making his eyes ache, and he remembers Elektra saying ‘first thing in the morning’, but he doesn’t know what the fuck that means.

 

There’s the sound of movement behind him and he whips around. It’s Elektra, her back to the wall. It doesn’t matter much if she’s real or not, he won’t risk trying to hit her with anything; he turns back to the sink, continuing to scrub at the shirt.

 

“What are you  _ doing _ ?”

 

With his back turned to her, she can’t see the look of mixed anguish and confusion he’s making.

 

“Cleaning,” he trails off, “Cleaning the shirt.”

 

“We have to  _ leave!  _ Fisk is waiting for us!” 

 

She catches him by the arm, nails digging into his skin through the material of the suit. She’s pulling him away and he puts up a half-hearted fight at fist.

 

“No, wait, I have to-”

 

“We are leaving  _ now, _ ” she snarls.

 

“No, I can’t, Fisk doesn’t like the other shirt, can’t wear the suit out--”

 

He’s reaching out for anything at all. It feels like something’s missing but he can’t find anything to pick up, so he settles for playing through the motions of running something between his fingers. He really needs to get that damn set of throwing knives. A deck of cards. Anything.

 

“Do you let Fisk make all your decisions for you?”

 

Bullseye goes perfectly still.

 

“I said, do you let Fisk make all your decisions for you?”

 

He shakes his head.

 

She looks frustrated, situation’s not worth her fury, “Then put your jacket on over the suit and button it all the way up and we may just make it to our meeting on time.”

 

* * *

The suits usher them both upstairs as soon as they set foot in the lobby; better than leaving him down on the ground floor to lose his mind as Elektra and Fisk talk about him. He doesn’t like being left out of the loop.

 

The ride in the elevator is completely silent; the suits don’t look at either of them, he doesn’t look at Elektra, she doesn’t look at him. They spill out into the room and Bullseye has the sense that something is different this time. He’s not sure what it is, but it’s digging at the back of his mind.

 

Fisk has his hands clasped tight, resting on the table with just as dissatisfied of a look on his face as ever. He flicks his head just slightly towards the suits and they pat Bullseye down, looking for weapons. He’s not unarmed, but they aren’t gonna find anything that’s identifiable as a weapon.

 

“I’ve been behaving,” he smiles, lifts his arms up, “Didn’t bring anything sharp this time.”

 

Fisk scowls, “You reek of alcohol.”

 

He flicks his eyes over to Elektra for a fraction of a second; it’s a risky bet but he thinks she’ll play along. They’ve got similar goals for the long term.

 

“You know how it is,” he shrugs, “Wild night.”

 

“I’m not paying you to get drunk.”

 

“It was off the clock,  _ right, Elektra?” _

 

She takes a step closer to Fisk’s side, arms crossed in a single, fluid movement. It’s smart, don’t wanna look like they’re getting along too well.

 

“Yes. I would not let him drink while we were working.”

 

Fisk seems to accept the explanation as good enough; he purses his lips, thinking.

 

“And what, exactly, did you get done yesterday? Because it looks as if you failed to even get another shirt, like I asked you to.”

 

“I  _ did _ ,” he growls out, emotions getting the better of him, “Just like you  _ asked.  _ It’s just dirty.”

 

That was the wrong move; the thin line of Fisk’s mouth has gotten even thinner.

 

Elektra takes over, voice cool, almost hypnotic, “We have been tracking the mark. We need a quiet place to  _ take care of him _ , you want us to be quiet, correct?”

 

“Yes, Elektra. We can’t have my name in the headlines,  _ you stupid broad _ ,” he doesn’t smash his fist against the table so much as through the table, “You’re just as bad as he is. Neither of you can  _ think!  _ Neither of you can see the  _ big picture!  _ The  _ long term! _ So, yes, I want it done  _ quietly!” _

 

“Yes, sir,” she keeps her eyes cast at the ground, looks like she’s giving in but he knows she’s just hiding the rage on her face.

 

Elektra’s got her jaw set, teeth clenched tight and murder in her eyes.  _ If looks could kill.  _ He just hopes she’ll let him help when she finally guts Fisk.

 

“Get out,” he stands up, gesturing to the elevator, “Don’t come back until you have something worth my time.”

 

Bullseye doesn’t have to be told twice. He jolts back to life, heading for the elevator without looking back. Elektra isn’t behind him; she better not do anything stupid because he needs her to get to Red.

 

She slips in just as the doors are starting to close. Fisk has already moved on to the next thing on his itinerary, the suits are clustered around him and he’s starting to raise his voice loud enough the  whole block can hear him.

 

“--Can’t move on to Murdock until we’ve got the others out of the way--

 

The doors slide shut, only one suit in there with them. Elektra’s hands are drifting down to the sai holsters, and he’s got a hunch that she didn’t leave them at home. Maybe she’ll break his wrist, but it’s better than the alternative. He grabs her hand, subtle, slow movement.

 

_ ‘Don’t, _ ’ he mouths, ‘ _ Not yet.’ _

 

She shakes his hand away and the guard stays breathing. He’s so blissfully unaware of it, almost makes Bullseye laugh. And Fisk thought he was the dangerous one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact! the working title of this chapter was 'chekov's cufflinks' because of a series of dumb jokes i made spawning out of 'i bet they'll make it three days tops'


	4. murder takes the wheel of the cadillac

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter title is from 'deanna' by nick cave and the bad seeds, also happy new years to you all!

When they hit the sidewalk, she grabs him by the arm, dragging him off to one of the alleyways near Fisk’s building. It was a stupid move, stopping her in the elevator, but it saved both their skins.

 

She looks half wild in the shadows, “Hit me.”

 

“W-what?”

 

“Hit me,” there’s blood on her teeth like she’s been gnawing at the inside of her mouth.

 

It’s definitely a trap of some kind, but his blood’s boiling too and he’s feeling lucky. 

 

He swings out at her; she ducks right under his fist. Telegraphing his moves, probably.

 

He’s never been good in close quarters, that’s why she kicked his ass the first time around. He steps back, putting some space between them.

 

Access ladder built into the bricks; he climbs a few rungs, jumps to the little ledge jutting out from the side of the building. He perches there, seen Red do the same thing before.

 

She jumps up, fingers catching on the ledge. He digs the heel of his boot into her knuckles.

 

She barely reacts to it, so he goes for the pack of toothpicks in his pocket. So far, no one’s drawn blood but he’s got no qualms against going there first. He lines one up, one eye shut, tongue between his teeth, and flicks it.

 

Elektra grabs onto his leg, pulling her way up or trying to pull him down.

 

Toothpick ricochets off the brick of the adjacent building, embeds in her back, near the shoulder blade. Nothing lethal, he missed her spine entirely.

 

She snarls, lets go of the ledge entirely, putting all her weight on him. Goes to kick her perfect face, but she jerks away and he just ends up off balance.

 

They’re both tumbling and she lets go, smiling. It’s not a long fall. He lands on his feet, crouched down with his knuckles bruised by the gravel. She lands on her back.

 

Shit.

 

The toothpick’s probably in her lung now, impact was hard enough. 

 

He crouches down next to her, head lolled back, nose bleeding. Looks like she’s breathing alright, guess Red isn’t the only guardian angel she’s got. He reaches out, hands shaking, can barely believe she’s like this and he did it and-

 

She catches him in the nose, head snaps back.

 

Blood pours down the back of his throat and he goes for her eyes but she’s not there.

 

She’s fast, moves like a fucking dancer. Has him by the neck before he even realizes it.

 

“Fuckin’ stop already,” he wheezes, “You wanna fight? Fine. Pay me first.”

 

Elektra pauses, panting as she smiles, “This was just what I needed.”

 

She drops him, lets him rub away the feeling of hands on his neck.

 

“You’re crazy, ‘Lektra.”

 

“I am not the one yelling at people who are not there.”

 

He spits a clot of blood on the ground, “ _ Fuck you. _ ”

 

She twists around, reaching back for the toothpick sticking out of her skin. It didn’t go in as deep as it could, fuckin’ lucky girl. Her fingers barely brush it twice, but she can’t quite grab it.

 

“Do I have it yet?”

 

He pushes himself up to his feet, “Let me.”

 

She goes rigid stiff as he presses his fingers hard against the flesh surrounding the puncture wound. 

 

“Helps expose it,” he explains as he works, “Gives you a better chance at grabbing it.”

 

He catches the end between his nails and pulls it out in one quick motion. The only reaction on Elektra’s part is a sharp inhale. There’s a thin stream of blood pouring from the cut, but other than that, it doesn’t look bad.

 

“Missed the arteries and the nerves, you can thank me later.”

 

“You put a hole in my blouse.”

 

“So what? Buy another one. Isn’t that what you do?”

 

She turns back, looking like she’s gonna punch him again. Probably figuring out how best to finish the job by sending the bridge of his nose into his brain matter.

 

Instead, she composes herself, tucking her hair back behind her ears, “We should get back to work.”

 

“Can I at least clean up? People tend to notice when you’re walkin’ around covered in blood.”

 

She crosses her arms, “I suppose.”

 

* * *

They head back to his building. Funny thing is, he’s starting to get used to her tagging along with him everywhere. They’re quite the pair; she still looks like she’s out to kill someone and he’s trailing after her, trying to stop the nosebleed. Almost everyone in the lobby stares at them and he’s more concerned about the people pointedly ignoring them than anyone else. Fuckin’ perfect, they’re already drawing attention to themselves.

 

Back in the apartment, he strips down, suit loose around his waist, lets her get an eyeful of the puckered scar on his stomach and back. She got him good, through and through. He was right, it was a clean stab. A miracle, the doctors said, but he knows well enough that there’s no such thing. There’s a skill to everything, even that.

 

He saunters into the master bathroom, hasn’t had a real damn shower since he broke out of jail. The mark can wait, they’ve got time. The water runs dark as he stands under it and the steam helps clear out the taste of blood from his sinuses.

 

“So,” he calls out, kept the door open so he can multitask, “We’re gonna head back to the newspaper and see if we can’t find out more about the mark. Where’s his office, what makes him tick, what’re his weaknesses. The basics.”

 

“We can get that much from an  _ office?” _

 

She sounds downright apprehensive; he smiles, warm water running over his closed eyelids. There’s nothing quite like showing off.

 

“I don’t know about you, but  _ I  _ can get that much from an office. Neat freaks always take the same route home, the messy ones are usually the paranoid ones so you can’t let ‘em know you’re following, the more personal belongings, the more someone’s gonna miss ‘em. Like I said, the basics.”

 

“And that will help us kill him?”

 

“Uh-huh, we don’t want any witnesses so we need to know ‘bout the loved ones, we need him somewhere isolated, workaholics stay after everyone else so that could be an opening, or we’ll have to get him on his way to or from work.”

 

She doesn’t seem to have a retort to that and the water’s running clear so he shuts the shower off. He grabs a towel, moves into the bedroom to scrounge up something to wear. Most of the time, he doesn’t mind wearing other people’s clothes.

 

“Now that we’ve got that all cleared up,” he calls out to the living room, making sure she’s still here, “What are we gonna do about Murdock?”

 

Elektra’s standing in the doorway in an instant. That’s still a raw spot, he guesses, which will make it easier to push her into saying something. He’s pulling on a pair of trousers from the closet, at least a size too big, when he feels her slide up behind him.

 

Her hands are cold as ice on his shoulders, breath hot against his neck as she whispers, “You should not be so careless. You never know who is listening.”

 

There’s no way Fisk has his apartment bugged, no way he got that set up so quickly. An operation like that takes plenty of time. That is, unless the bugs were already there before he even moved in.

 

He’s been so distracted by everything else to even consider that. Fuck. Fisk always picks the apartments for him, sends him to an address whenever he needs a place to sleep. 

 

It’s never been a problem when the only ones he’s talking to are himself and whatever memories decide to crash the party.

 

So they won’t talk about Murdock in the apartment. That’s easy enough. He pulls on the shirt with the missing button, does up the remaining ones.

 

“Let’s go find the mark, maybe we can catch him on his lunch break and get him somewhere quiet and isolated.”

 

Elektra nods and they move back out into the hallway.

 

* * *

Down on the sidewalk, they keep a meandering pace. The name of the game is blending in. Eyewitnesses are unreliable at best and the less distinguishing features you have, the harder it is to remember someone.

 

“Now that we’re outta the room, what are we gonna do about Murdock?” He speaks low enough that no one else will overhear, but loud enough to make it over the crowd.

 

Elektra doesn’t bother turning to look at him, “We have to kill Fisk.”

 

“Nah, too risky,” he pauses, running his fingers over one of the remaining buttons, “No, we can use this.”

 

“How?”

 

“Keep getting info from Fisk, keep feeding it to Matty, just enough warning that he makes it out alive.”

 

“What is the point of that?” She falls silent, storming her way through a couple holding hands.

 

He catches up to her, matching her pace, “Then he needs us.”

 

Elektra stops in her tracks, like it all makes sense now.

 

“Doubly so if Fisk ends up hurting him, ends up fucking up his happy little life.”

 

“And then we kill Fisk?” She asks, one eyebrow raised.

 

“Play our cards right and Matty’ll be starving for revenge.”

 

“He doesn’t kill.”

 

“I know,” he laughs, “But we do.”

 

She falls silent, look on her face like she's considering it. If she didn't see some point to the plan, she'd just shoot him down. She's got nothing against letting him know  _ exactly  _ what she thinks about him.

 

They've passed two more blocks before she speaks again.

 

“I will work with you for this on one condition. I kill Fisk, alone.”

 

He shoots her a shit eating grin, “Sure thing, Handsome.”

 

“I have  _ never _ been disrespected like that. I have never had  _ anyone _ doubt my competence and live to speak of it.”

 

“You get used to it,” he shrugs, “Every other week he's threatening to kill me or calling me a useless brain-damaged fuck.”

 

Elektra's looking at him now, calculating glare, head tilted slightly. It gives him the sense that he's said too much, she got something out of that and he didn't even realize it.

 

He'll get her back for it. Still knows next to nothing about her other than that she's in something like love with Red and she's burning herself out on revenge.

 

But they're working together now, maybe he'll have to get used to her piecing him together. It's what he's planning on doing with her as long as they're partners.

 

She's rubbing off on him, though. By the time they reach the paper, the thought of trying to get anything more from the mark makes him feel restless. It's stupid but as much as he wants to see him choking on his own blood, he still wants to get back in Fisk's good graces.

 

They must've made it just as lunch is starting, steady stream of people pouring out into the streets. He's seen the mark's picture; reedy fuck, pen tucked behind his ear, long jacket like he thinks he's a PI. Sure enough, he's in the second wave of reporters.

 

“Don't move too fast, draws attention,” he hisses, “But there's our guy.”

 

Elektra looks to the side, slow without entirely turning her head. He'll give him a head start, not a fighting chance but a chance.

 

“Go ahead, act like you know him, you read his stories and you just  _ loooove _ them, distract him.”

 

She scowls, not used to being ordered around, but she heads after him.

 

Bullseye crouches down like he's tying his shoes, counts the seconds as he feels for a rock with a nice weight to it. Then, he follows Elektra. She's a beacon among the crowd, doesn't move like she's been weighed down by anything.

 

She's doing good, leading the mark somewhere isolated. He watches her head towards a little courtyard area, houses an open air market sometimes. He sticks to the shadows, out of the mark's line of sight.

 

That accent trick of hers is downright freaky, she's got a bubbly American deal going on, sounds like the prom queen made it to the UN.

 

He rolls the rock between his palms and watches Elektra lead the mark of the over to a bench. The guy took the bait, barely letting her get a word in edgewise now but she keeps smiling and nodding, stringing him around.

 

It's a straight shot, no problem even if the target's gesticulating like a madman. Bullseye lines up and throws the rock.

 

Hits him square in the temple and the reporter's eyes roll back. Elektra stands up, looking over at Bullseye as the mark slides off the bench. The sandwich is still clutched in his hands with a death grip. It'll look like a hemorrhage in the brain and any bruises could be written off as him eating concrete when he fell. 

 

Journalists are overworked as it is, stress does terrible things to a body. Nobody will think anything of it. Coroner won't have any hard proof that the blood vessels bursting weren't just a freak accident.

 

Elektra strolls back over to join him, no one's around to see the body yet and they can walk right out of there like they're normal people out for lunch.

 

“Impressive,” she whispers, half smile playing on her lips.

 

“Told you I was a specialist.”

 

* * *

They can wait before telling Fisk, make him squirm thinking they're incompetent, give them a while to figure out what to do about Red. There isn't much time, nothing Fisk hates more than finding out a job's been done from a second hand source.

 

Elektra's sitting in one of the armchairs, working a cloth over her sai again and again. It's one of her tells, he figures, something like restlessness.

 

“Matt will not listen to anyone unless they are convincing. He will do nothing if I simply tell him that Fisk is after him.”

 

Bullseye unfolds a paperclip, throws it up at the ceiling where it joins all the others in the stucco, “So we get some specifics and you tell him those.”

 

“And how, exactly, do you suggest we do that?”

 

“I'm figuring the journalist had something do with it, since Fisk said he needed the others out of the way before he could get to Murdock. We find out who he was and we'll find out what Fisk is planning.”

 

“Which is why you learn marks,” Elektra scowls, probably hates that he's got a method to his madness.

 

“So we go tell Fisk the job's done, maybe get another piece of the puzzle for us to kill, see if he slips up and gives us anything else. And then I'll see what the journalist can tell us. Bound to be some microfiche archives for the paper.”

 

“Okay,” she says, “We can do this your way.”

 

* * *

He’s half expecting Fisk to stop them from coming up after the way this morning went. He wouldn’t fight his way up, no, that’d draw too much attention. Whatever Fisk throws at him, he just takes it. He’ll get him back one day, probably, once the money dries up.

 

_ But you know this is not about the money,  _ the biting voice that sounds a hell of a lot like Elektra speaks up.

 

It’s gotta be something he’s thinking, deep down, but he’s got no idea what else it’d be about.

 

Fisk makes them wait for a solid twenty minutes, but he lets them up. Bullseye takes the lead this time, can’t let her do anything that might get them killed. Funny how it only took a few days to go from  trying to kill her to trying to keep her alive. 

 

(What else can he say? He gets jealous easy.)

 

(She took his place and now she’s trying to take Red, but he’ll be ready when she cuts him loose)

 

Fisk clears his throat, “Don’t tell me you came here to further waste my time.”

 

Bullseye blinks once, twice, readjusts to the penthouse, “We got your mark, got him good.”

 

Fisk looks him over, makes him feel like a butterfly pinned to a board.

 

“We were careful, shouldn’t even make the coroner think twice,” he adds, anything to get Fisk to stop staring at him, “Someone’s probably found him by now, called the paramedics.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Fisk is easy, doesn’t want to pay extra for proof of death. It works out just fine, he’s not the kind to leave a job unfinished. Only unfinished ones so far have been Fisk, but he pays better than anyone else, and Elektra, but she’s got access to Red in a way nobody else does.

 

“And our pay?” Elektra’s voice is measured, restrained.

 

“I’ll wire you the money shortly.”

 

He scowls, “All of Poindexter’s accounts are frozen, Fisk.”

 

“I’ll give Elektra your shares until they’re unfrozen.”

 

“Fuck that. Cash or I  _ quit _ .”

 

“Cash will take longer to get, you know that,” Fisk glares at him, “It makes things harder for me, which will just make things harder for you.”

 

“I can wait.”

 

“Fine,” Fisk looks like he’s about to pop a blood vessel, “Get out of here. I have nothing more for you.”

 

So they've got the day off. No new jobs on the docket yet. Elektra's got him on edge, making him feel like Fisk has eyes everywhere. But they're free for now.

 

He waits until they're a few blocks away to bring up anything important, kind of a nervous habit, just in case.

 

“Let's see who our journalist was, see what got Fisk so hot and bothered.”

 

“People have already seen us around the newspaper building. It could be unwise to go back so soon.”

 

He thinks for a second, she's probably right, “Might already have some of his stories at one of the libraries, it's worth a try.”

 

Elektra nods, still doesn't look like she likes the way he's doing things. There's nothing else to do today, so she isn't putting up much of a fight. She's probably just doing it to appease him but the ends justify the means.

 

* * *

Outside the nearest library, he checks himself in the outside windows; he looks presentable enough, bruises haven't risen up from the fight with Elektra yet. He won't look nearly as good tomorrow. She stays outside, keeping watch.

 

He heads in, moves up to the front desk, “Can you help me find the microfilm archives?”

 

He knows his way around the archives, doesn't need anyone hovering over him; it helps putting together timelines, figuring out extenuating factors which could throw things off.

 

The librarian leads him up to the second floor, nice and isolated, nothing but the readers and the records. He'll know if anyone else comes in and there's enough things around to defend himself if it comes to that.

 

He's gotta stop spending so much time with Elektra. Fisk trusts him; he'd be dead if he didn't.

 

He digs through the catalog, looking for archives from the newspaper. There aren't many, and they don't list the authors either. He'll have to go through article by article. He starts up the reader, grabs the first roll he touches and hopes for a lucky pick.

 

It still takes him twenty minutes to skim the whole roll, nothing by the mark in the first one so he moves on to the second. No one's come in and no word from Elektra, so he's still got time.

 

Halfway through the roll, his eyes catch on an article. The surname's the same but the first name doesn't match the one on the mark's file. Doesn't mean they're not the same person. 

 

The file from Fisk didn't give any specifics, but this guy? This guy's a fuckin’ trial reporter. 

 

The article's small fry, some CEO booked on embezzlement. It's no one in Fisk's circle but it's a start. He probably got on Fisk's bad side with one of his stories, there might even be some truth to the story about him not taking bribes.

 

Things start getting interesting with the third roll. The mark's getting more attention, bigger cases to cover. Bullseye's starting to recognize the names on the headline, even killed a few of them in his time.

 

But then, everything changes. One of the articles on the next roll covers the first case tried by the one and only, Matthew Murdock.

 

It's the start of a trend; Mr. Reporter built his whole damn career on Matt Murdock, tracking Red's rise to fame step by step.

 

Fisk wanted him dead for a reason. It's bound to be more than just the fact that Mr. Reporter took a shine to Matty; plenty of people love the blind lawyer, makes for a good story, and most of them are still kicking.


	5. can't believe the way you bleed when you run, run, run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter title is from run, run, run by concrete blonde

Elektra’s still waiting outside, leaning up against the wall, looking pretty. She’s watching everyone, but no one’s watching her. No, they’re just looking at her. She’s a perfect guard, perfect decoy, everyone around her lets their defense down because she’s beautiful.

 

The crowd keeps weaving around them, loud enough to muffle whatever they’re talking about. Maybe Fisk does have eyes all over the city, but no way does he have a way to listen in on them. It’s probably safer to talk out here than back in the apartment.

 

“The mark was watchin’ Matty, covered almost every one of his cases.”

 

Elektra, the beauty, melts into Elektra, the killer in less than a second, eyes go even darker, face stone cold. Maybe he struck a nerve with the nickname.

 

“Fisk wanted a small time reporter dead over a  _ grudge? _ ”

 

“You get used to jobs like this,” he laughs, “Fisk is self-obsessed and stupid. But we got something important. It’s not about Daredevil, it’s about  _ Matt. _ ”

 

“So Fisk  _ knows _ .”

 

“Don’t know how, I wasn’t even sure ‘til you confirmed a suspicion or two.”

 

“Fisk has money and fear on his side. Someone told him, someone betrayed Matt,” she’s got that fiery look in her eyes again, teeth bared like an animal, “I will  _ kill  _ the coward who did it.”

 

He holds up his hands to stop her, “Woah there, calm down a sec. We’ve got something to tell him, something to hook him. The rat in his circle is a bonus, the more afraid he is, the more appealing we’ll be. After all, bet he thinks you’d never lie to him.”

 

“We are not lying to him.”

 

He’s gotta admit, the ‘we’ tripped him up more than a little. It’s almost like they’re actually partners. Trouble is, nobody’s really partners in a business like this. Weirder yet is the fact she insists they aren’t lying.

 

“Okay, we’re just leavin’ out some key details,” he shrugs, “Like the fact we’re figuring all this out from a trail of bodies.”

 

“Yes,” she looks dead serious, says it without inflection.

 

“Speaking of trails of bodies,” his fingers move back to the shirt buttons, “Red’s gotta be hunting me down. Everyone knows I’m out by now. Fisk’s got enough of the pigs on his payroll but Red can’t be bought. Drives him up the fuckin’ wall.”

 

Her eyes flick over at him, brows furrowed, “And you are telling me this, why, exactly?”

 

“Can’t help you get him if I’m dead or in jail  _ again. _ Plus, I know you’re watching him.”

 

She makes a slight noise of affirmation, closest thing to an agreement of protection he’s gonna get.

 

“We should spend time apart.”

 

He grins, crooked, flashing his teeth, “Aw, and here I thought you liked me.”

 

“Fisk will notice if we get too…  _ friendly, _ ” she spits the final word, arms crossed.

 

He’s itching to get away from her, too. She’s got him all mixed up, might just be paranoid but it’s definitely getting to him. He’s never asked too many questions about any of his employers, just the basics to make sure they’re gonna pay him. Why people want a target dead doesn’t usually mean much, he only needs a paycheck and a name.

 

It’ll be good to spend some time apart. Gives him time to clear his head, remember who he is. It’ll be nice to go a few minutes without feeling like he’s told her something he shouldn’t.

 

He’s gotta be ready for when she draws Red in; after that, she won’t need him and he’ll lose her link to Daredevil.

 

* * *

He spends the rest of the day on the couch, sleeping off the wicked headache that’s one part hangover and one part Elektra beating the shit out of him. ( _ Again _ .) He hasn’t actually made it to the bed yet, but there’s always tomorrow.

 

What he really oughta do is get back on track. Fisk expects him to be awake during the day and to kill at night and he’s gotta manage both. Definitely isn’t because he’s remembering something the  prison shrink said; fucker was full of shit but he’s gotta admit he’s been hallucinating more than he has in a long time.

 

It’s just starting to get dark out and he’s pissed off. He was impulsive, stupid, wanted to show off and wanted to let off steam and was tired of being frustrated. It’s not gonna look like murder, but he hates that he didn’t make it through all the steps of his process. And he never got the journalist’s damn pen, either.

 

He’s never been one for keeping trophies, but he’ll pick up anything with a nice feel to it, a good weight in his hand. They never stick around for long, but he likes to have a little insurance policy, break glass in case of emergency and all that jazz.

 

He’s got half a mind to go out and clear his head, get moving and hope it’s enough to let him sleep tonight. So he puts the suit back on, _ his suit _ , and lingers in the bedroom a while. It’s got a good vantage point and even if he doesn’t have a fire-escape, he’s got a window that opens and he knows how to climb. 

 

Definitely feels more right than hiding in plain view in the lobby. That’s Elektra, not Bullseye.

 

He almost makes a game out of it, jumping between rooftops, landing on his toes or slipping into a roll. He doesn’t take other jobs when he’s on Fisk’s retainer, but there’s nothing against him scoping the city out.

 

Red’s out there somewhere, patrolling, probably looking for him. Or not. There might be something more important out there, someone Red’s gotta help. Part of him likes being loud, leaving a calling card, knows it drives Matty up the wall. If he’s quiet about his work, there’s no reason for anyone to notice him.

 

He's not doing anything too off the wall, nothing fancy even though he knows he can stick the landing; the stab wound is still tender, Tall Dark and Handsome just kicked the shit out of him earlier today, and he doesn't want to do any lasting damage. He knows how to take a punch like a champ but cuts are different. Only thing that might be broken is his nose, but he's used to that.

 

The next building is a few feet taller than the one he's standing on, but he can see the exact place he wants to grab, nice ledge he can hold onto. In jail, he spent most of his time working out. Kept his mind off things, like the drilling pain in his head. That wasn't a lie, even if he did use it as a ruse to get out.

 

He thinks, hopes, the headaches are gone but the hallucinations are back so it's one hell traded for another. But he's trying to relax, so he lets his mind go blank, focuses only on the point he's aiming for, and takes a running start.

 

There's a perfect weightless feeling in his gut after his feet leave the rooftop. Figures other people only hate heights because they don't know they'll land right, but he always hits the target.

 

Then his hands hook on the ledge of the next building and his feet search for traction on the bricks of the side. He pulls himself up, almost rips the stab wound back open in the process, but he feels good.

 

He climbs to his feet, throws his head back laughing. This is how it's supposed to be. He's gotta ditch Elektra as soon as he can, go back to being  _ just  _ Bullseye.

 

The thought's cut short when he gets thrown back onto the rooftop. Lands wrong, gets the wind knocked out of him because he wasn't ready.

 

And then Red's on top of him, knees digging into his stomach.

 

His hands claw aimlessly at the concrete, feeling for anything to grab.

 

Red's,  _ Matt's,  _ hands ghost over his cheeks and he freezes, goes stock still like he always fucking does.  Matt--Red--Daredevil lifts him up just enough to slam his head against the ground.

 

He lifts him up again and Bullseye's head lolls, crooked grin that tastes like blood.

 

“Speak of the fuckin’ devil.”

 

“You were  _ laughing _ .”

 

Daredevil fucking smashes his forehead into him, definitely breaks his nose this time.

 

“I should've let you die when I had the chance.”

 

It burns him up knowing that Red saved him, but…

 

“Can't let anyone die, that's not you.”

 

Daredevil's face contorts, almost looks pained, makes him smile again.

 

“You won't kill me and I won't kill you. Stalemate.”

 

Red's winding up to hit him again. 

 

But then Elektra's behind him, chin hooked over his shoulder, and Bullseye doesn't know if she's real or not but she's there and she's stopping Matt.

 

“Stop,” she says, hair falling over Red's shoulder, nose almost touching his ear, “Your anger is eating you alive.”

 

Bullseye watches his fist drop to his side, still pinning him down but at least he can breathe.

 

“I need him,  _ we _ need him, darling.”

 

“Wh-what, what do you mean?” Red's stammering, caught off guard.

 

She speaks slow, almost hypnotic, “Kingpin is planning something, something to hurt you. I will not let that happen, even if we are no longer on the same side.”

 

Red relaxes even more, body slumping forward like he's dead tired. She pulls him away enough that Bullseye can slide out from under him, scrambling backwards until he finds a wall.

 

It feels out of place to see either of them like this, Elektra tracing her fingers across Red's jaw, his hands on her waist. Maybe they were like this in college; whatever it is, she sure doesn't hate him like she says she does.

 

“What's he planning, Elektra?” Red sounds almost desperate.

 

“I… I do not know.”

 

She's losing him, so Bullseye steps in.

 

“We don't know  _ yet.  _ He's got us on a reporter, covered your cases an awful lot.”

 

“You're still killing?”

 

It's tearing him up so bad he doesn't even question why Bullseye knows who he is under the mask.

 

“You do your job and I will do mine. I am warning you out of courtesy.”

 

Red pushes her away, “I… I have to think about this.”

 

Elektra nods, somber look on her face. He runs off, and she watches him until he's completely gone.

 

“He took the bait,” Bullseye says, pushing himself up to his feet, “He'll be back for more.”

 

Elektra knocks him right back down, sai pressed to the softness of his neck, “What are you getting out of this? Why are you after him?”

 

“Told you already, one day I'll--”

 

“You just admitted you will not kill him,” she hisses, presses the blade tight enough it hurts, “I ask you one final time: what is your business with Matt?”

 

“I hate him, same as you.”

 

The edge of the blade drags across his neck, slicing through the fabric of the suit, and his eyes flick across the space in desperate search of an out.

 

“Matt will never need you,” she says, eyes cold, “Why would he ever need you when he has me? Once I have him, and I  _ will  _ get him, you will be nothing.”

 

He swallows the lump in his throat, a movement that presses the blade tighter to his skin, “He saved my life.”

 

She laughs, borders on cackling, first real show of emotion he’s seen since she stabbed him.

 

“He saves everyone. You said it yourself. You are not special.”

 

He knows that, fuck, he’s known it all along. He’s a means to an end but there’s something about Red that he’s hung up on and he can’t seem to shake it. But just ‘cos it’s true, doesn’t mean her actually saying it doesn’t make his blood boil.

 

He manages to muster up some nerve, digs his knee up into her ribcage. She glares at him, nose wrinkled; he could force her off of him from there but he’s got a feeling that’s a bad idea. It’s at this point he realizes his hands are raised, like he was gonna try to shove her away, but he stops, shaking in place.

 

“Do not touch me  _ ever  _ again,” she snarls, pulls back off of him, “You are lucky I want you alive.”

 

Another contradiction, just hours ago she got him to fight her. But he isn’t in a position to argue. He slips out from under her and staggers to his feet, leading right into a running start for the next building over.

 

* * *

Back at the apartment, in the bathroom, he sets to work assessing the damage. Nose is broken, eyes are starting to go black, but he can wear sunglasses. Didn’t crack a tooth this time, so there’s that. He can see just fine, even if the white of his left eye’s red with burst blood vessels. 

 

The lights are garish, almost clinical, makes him look dead when he’s looking in the mirror.

 

But at least he looks like Bullseye. Doesn’t look like Red, doesn’t look like Elektra. He looks like someone he can recognize.

 

He’d look better if there wasn’t blood crusted across the bridge of his nose and his lips, dried into his hair. So he’ll start there. Plugs the sink, lets the water run until it’s almost full. He holds his breath and keeps his head underwater until his lungs burn.

 

It doesn’t do much to get off the blood, so he scrubs at his face until it’s mostly gone and dunks his head underwater again.

 

He comes up for air again, chest heaving, metallic taste in his mouth. There’s still the thin line of a cut on his neck to deal with.

 

He has to fix the suit. Can’t tell Fisk it needs repairs already.

 

But, the other shirt’s in the sink, still wet and forgotten until now. Practically trips over his damn feet trying to get it and hang it up so it can dry.

 

Now he can fix the costume. There’s no guarantee he’ll even find a needle and thread in a place like this. Nobody with this kind of money bothers with darning. Maybe if it was a hobby. 

 

But he’s on a mission now so he tears up the bedroom vanity. Pulls out all the drawers and puts them on the carpet. He picks through each one, setting out the contents around the drawer. The two middle drawers have nice jewelry tucked into little boxes, not that he can pawn it. Most pieces like that are one of a kind, easy to trace owners; he learned that the hard way.

 

He’s pieced together enough to know that a couple lived here. Everything’s designed for two. The top drawer is full of makeup, there’s a shaving kit in the bathroom. Both of them are probably dead. No idea what they meant to Fisk.

 

The bottom left drawer has a watch and a set of shoe polish, few dirty rags to go along with it. Only when he’s laying them out does he realize there’s a gun wrapped in one of the rags. Nice sized pistol, only one bullet fired.

 

The bottom right drawer has a pincushion with a few pins in it, a spool of black thread, and several sets of scissors. He tests the weight of them, debates putting one of them in the wall. He’ll keep them.

 

He strips off the costume and sits cross-legged, dead center in the circle of objects laid out on the floor. The costume rests in his lap as he looks through the pincushion for a needle. There’s only one, hopefully sharp enough to go through the fabric without much force. Threads it in one go, knots the ends together to reinforce the stitches.

 

The material of the suit is thick, makes it slow going. It doesn’t help that he’s wasting time making sure the stitches are uniform. He’s barely fixed a quarter of the cut when he hears something like movement in the apartment. Turns back to the suit, tries to ignore it, but it definitely sounds like someone’s walking around.

 

He can’t remember if he shut the window or not.

 

It’s probably Elektra, barging in like she owns the damn place yet again.

 

But they’re playing a dangerous game and if she’s right about Fisk listening in…

 

In a choice between the gun and the scissors, he’d pick the scissors any day. So he reaches over, movement’s slow enough to be silent, and holds them tight. It seems like he’s got surprise on his side, so he stands, steps carefully between the things on the floor.

 

He avoids the strip of light cast by the gap between the door and the ground, doesn’t want anyone to know he’s in there. The metal of the scissors is already warming up in his hands and he waits by the doorframe, listening.

 

Someone’s pacing, being real loud about it, too.

 

He doesn’t know how long it’s been when it stops. The pacing gets replaced by talking, happening too far away for him to make out any real words, but he knows the sound of an argument when he hears one.

 

He’s got the scissors held tight in one hand, other on the door handle just in case.

 

The argument’s moving, words getting clearer. It’s not quiet so much as it’s contained. People aren’t supposed to hear what’s being discussed. It’s gotta be in the living room by now.

 

“You are being  _ ungrateful _ . Foolish and immature.”

 

So it  _ is  _ Elektra--

 

“You don’t know what he  _ is.” _

 

\--and Red.

 

“And what would that be?”

 

There’s a drawn out pause, silence filled by the sound of his own pulse.

 

“A killer, Elektra,” Red sounds repulsed, “He’s a killer.”

 

“What does that make me?” She’s just as self assured as ever.

 

“That’s  _ different _ .”

 

He keeps the scissors close, probably won’t need them but it pays to be prepared. There’s no reason wasting this time, so he picks his way back to the suit and takes a seat with his side pressed against the wall.

 

If Elektra’s an exception, it means Red’s code has already got weak points. One exception can become two, and so on and so on. It’ll be easier to drive him to revenge. But that’s something she doesn’t need to know.

 

“This isn’t the way we do things, Elektra, you know that.”

 

There’s something sharp in her voice, “You. This is not the way  _ you  _ do things.”

 

“Elektra…”

 

“I want to help you. I would not be doing this if I didn’t.”

 

Bullseye thinks it might be over, makes it through seven whole stitches of silence. They’re still in the room, he can see their shadows playing on the floor. Elektra’s running the show, probably staged the damn argument, put herself right where he’d see them.

 

“I don’t want your help,” Red sounds broken down, lost the bite that anger gave him, “Not if it means people are going to die.”

 

No matter what he’s saying, Red’s got a soft spot for her. It’s the difference between this fight taking place in an apartment or a jail cell. He’s strict, but he’s still human.

 

“I will still be here, if you need me.”

 

“You weren’t last time.”

 

“That was different.”

 

Bullseye can almost see the look on her face, corner of her lip quirked up in a half-smirk. She always turns the attacks back on you. It’s damn lucky to get a hit in.

 

Red doesn’t seem to have an answer to that. It’s a stalemate, no one wants to fuck things up beyond the possibility of patching things up.

 

Bullseye’s gotta admit, he really didn’t think the fight would end like that. It’s obvious that she won, probably hurt Red as bad as the sai would. But she was emotional, too. Probably wouldn’t have let so much slip if she was calm and collected. She’s hard to read, stone cold all the time, but there’s much more to her than apathy.

 

He got some important things, more important than Elektra knows. She left, Red’s torn up about it. She wants him, he wants her, they can’t seem to meet in the middle. They’re angry but not angry enough to cut each other off. 

 

The silhouettes move out of the light, whole place thick with an uncomfortable silence. 

 

A few minutes later, the light clicks off as well.

 

He finishes off the stitches in the dark, stays there without moving until he’s sure the apartment’s empty. Didn’t realize how stiff his joints were until he gets up, the fight must’ve dragged on longer than he thought. At least he’s finally gonna sleep in the damn bed.


	6. accidents never happen in a perfect world

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> title is from the song 'accidents never happen' by blondie

He wakes to a mindless, numbing pain. Hasn’t been tossed around like that in a long while. No doubt that Elektra feels just fine right about now.

 

At least part of it is hunger. He hasn’t had anything other than bourbon and wine in the past two days. There’s probably nothing worth eating in the apartment, cleaners don’t generally restock the pantry when they’re disposing of a body, but his money’s tied up with Fisk for the time being.

 

He doesn’t want to beg money off Elektra, but he’ll probably have to, which means he has to get dressed and try to find her. The shirt’s dry, though, which is better than nothing. The trousers are clean enough to wear again, so he pulls them on and buttons up the shirt.

 

Now he just has to figure out where the fuck she is, which is harder than it oughta be.

 

He weaves through the objects on the ground, only plan he’s got is to wander around until she finds him. She’s probably keeping tabs on him. Even if she isn’t, Fisk is and one of them will have food money.

 

He makes it two strides into the living room and freezes.

 

Red’s on the couch. Looks like he’s in a dead sleep.

 

Completely and utterly vulnerable.

 

He’s even in his fuckin’ civvies.

 

It would be so, so easy to kill him here and now. Get it all over with, save him and Handsome some trouble. But he isn’t gonna do that, isn’t sure he wants to do that. Fuck, he doesn’t even  _ know  _ what he wants to do.

 

Red’s on his couch in his apartment, unarmed and unaware. Congrats, you got exactly what you wanted. Now what?

 

Bullseye almost thinks he’s woken up, but he’s not moving like he’s awake. He’s got his hands pulled up like he’s shielding his face.

 

“No, no, nonono,” Red’s voice is thick with sleep, “ _ Stop!” _

 

It feels like he should do something. Feels like he should stop just standing there and gawking at Red like this. Maybe smooth his hair back for awhile and see if he calms down a little, but he’s got no idea where that’s coming from.

 

He doesn't want to leave Red in the apartment, no telling what he'll do if he's in here alone. Plus, there's a small part of him that doesn't want to come back and find him gone. He wants proof that this is all real.

 

But he needs something to do, needs something to keep him moving, so he grabs his jacket off the hook by the door and slides it on. He tucks his hands in the pocket and realizes, he's  _ got _ money. Still has the cash he took from the Cabbie.

 

It's weird to see Red without the mask  _ or  _ the glasses. Bullseye's never actually seen his eyes before. The closest he gets now is seeing the discoloration around his eyes, splotches on his skin, not as shiny as scars usually are.

 

He moves closer, trying to get a better look. He knows about the accident, Matty fancied himself a hero from the get go. Nobody ever talks about the scars, though, not in any interview about him.

 

Red stirs, blinks, eyes vacant, “Elektra?”

 

“Close but no cigar, Red.”

 

He tenses instantly, springs to his feet, “ _ Bullseye.” _

 

“Bingo. Got it in two.”

 

Red swings at him, must be off his game because he lets Bullseye catch his wrist, stops the punch.

 

“Didn't get me good enough last night? You already desperate for round two?”

 

Red gets him with the other fist, left hook to the jaw. So he's ambidextrous, the blow is a confident one.

 

“Hey,” he rubs at the sore spot with one hand, keeps the other holding back Red, “I don't wanna fight.”

 

Red doesn't seem to care, just shoves him hard, back hits against the wall. It hurts, aggravates the bruises.

 

“Stop hittin’ me and I'll buy you breakfast.”

 

Red pauses, “...Okay.”

 

He hasn't counted through the money yet, hopes he has enough for the two of them.

 

“I dunno where the diner is, but we can find it.”

 

Red still looks like he’s on guard, has a right to be suspicious considering the way things tend to shake out when they run into each other.

 

“It’s not a trap,” he says, holds up his open palms even though Matt can’t see them, “Got nothing in my hands. I just don’t know the neighborhood yet.”

 

“What are you doing in Elektra’s apartment?”

 

He can’t help but laugh, “Elektra’s? You think this is  _ Elektra’s  _ place? Nah, Red, this is my place. She led you here for a reason. Probably wants us to play nice.”

 

Red relaxes at the mention of Handsome, likely can’t stay mad at her for long. She’s got him good, but she fell hard along the way.

 

“Okay,” Red says, more assured this time.

 

He looks good when he’s not angry. The eyes are a little bit freaky, probably why he’s always got the glasses on, but he’s got a soft face. Cheekbones high, bordering on feminine; you could probably get away with calling him pretty. He’s lithe but you can tell he’s got muscle even under his civvies.

 

They’re wrinkled, very obviously slept in. Red moves with confidence but Bullseye can tell that he doesn’t quite know where the coffee table is. He’s skirting around it, like it’s bigger than it is.

 

“You don’t move like you’re blind when you fight. That’s why you like open spaces, not a lotta things to get in the way,” he pauses, decides he doesn’t want to get punched again, “‘Lektra told me, but I won’t tell anyone.”

 

He moves slowly, quiet as he can, and palms Matty’s glasses off the table.

 

“Heads up.”

 

Red turns towards the sound of his voice and he throws the glasses. It’s mostly to test him, see what he can do. It’s gotta be something to do with sound, which is why he threw them hard enough to make some noise. 

 

Red snatches them out of the air, lips drawn in a thin line, “Thanks.”

 

* * *

They’re in the elevator alone on the trip down to the lobby.

 

Just passed the fifteenth floor when he breaks the silence.

 

“People are gonna talk. Big name lawyer like you, in a place like this, with someone like me. Doesn’t help that you’re so disheveled.”

 

He’s getting under Red’s skin, making him squirm. He lets the sentence hang in the air until they reach the lobby, watches the way Red moves once they enter the lobby. It’s busy, which means he’ll be hyper-aware of all the people around. 

 

Matty’s got the cane out, which draws everyone’s attention when it clicks against the tile. They’re all too busy gawking that nobody cares too much when Bullseye bumps into a man, pilfering his sunglasses from his pocket to cover up the two black eyes. 

 

Out on the street, people get out of the way for Red. It’s got a different feel to it than when it happens with Elektra, he’s almost grimacing, looks uncomfortable as all get out. Bullseye stays by his side, doesn’t want to touch him to redirect him. It doesn’t seem like something he’d be able to get away with. They’re operating under a reluctant truce at best.

 

“Crosswalk,” he says, voice low.

 

“I know that,” Red hisses back, “I’m blind, not useless. I can cross the street without  _ help _ . Other people don’t move until they know it’s safe, you just have to listen.”

 

He doesn’t know this part of town, which sure isn’t making things easy. Barely recognizes any of the streets, much less where a diner might be. Plus, he doesn’t want to waste all his money so he needs somewhere affordable. But Red’ll get suspicious if he leads him all the way back to somewhere he knows.

 

“There’s gotta be something around here.”

 

He’s getting fed up, doesn’t want to get too far ahead of Matty, but he’s getting restless, needs to move.

 

“Turn here,” Red gestures to their right, “This way smells like grease.”

 

Bullseye shrugs, it’s better than nothing, and follows him. Red weaves through some back access roads, much more confident without anyone around. The last left spits them out right in front of what looks like a complete and utter dive, but he’s willing to take anything.

 

“Shit, Murdock, that’s pretty damn impressive after all.”

 

Matty gives a half smile, almost laughs.

 

* * *

Inside, the waitress seats them in a booth far from the door. It’s nice, isolated, gives them space so they can talk. Red won’t want to talk business, but Bullseye feels better if they’re out of earshot anyway.

 

“Rough night, huh?” She laughs like she thinks she’s a real fuckin’ comedian.

 

Bullseye looks over the sunglasses, just enough that she can get an eyeful of the shiners he’s sporting, “Tell me about it.”

 

That shuts her up real quick, she stalls a second before leading with, “Can I get you two anything to drink?”

 

“Coffee,” he says, slides the sunglasses back up his nose.

 

“I’ll be right back with that.”

 

Red kicks him hard under the table, toe of his boot probably bruises his fuckin’ shin.

 

“What’d you do  _ that  _ for?”

 

“You scared her,” Red hisses, “I know you did, I could hear her poor heart beating out of her chest. What did you  _ do?” _

 

“Nothin’ much. Just showed off the black eyes I got, courtesy of you and your freaky girlfriend.”

 

The waitress comes back, sets down two mugs and tops them up wordlessly.

 

Red makes his voice soft, “I’m sorry about  _ him _ , he likes to get a rise out of people.”

 

“What can I get you today?” She’s ignoring the apology, flashing a big plastic smile.

 

“Bacon, eggs, stack of pancakes, and, uh, hm, sausage I guess.”

 

“Can I just get an egg, overeasy, and toast?”

 

He’s always so polite, probably doesn’t even know that the waitress nodded in response.

 

“I’ll have that right out,” she says, high tails it out of there.

 

“Look, B, uh, Bul--” Red sighs, runs a hand through his hair, “Uh, can I call you Benjamin?”

 

“No.”

 

He scowls, looks even more fed up, “I have to call you something and I’m not calling you  _ that  _ in the middle of a diner.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because you’re on the run,” Red drops his voice low, conspiratorial, before moving on, “Ben, then?”

 

He groans, rests his head in his hands.

 

“ _ Benny _ ?” Red gives that short half laugh again, eyebrows raised.

 

Bullseye drags his hands down his face. It’s always with the names. Nobody wants to just suck it up and call him Bullseye.

 

Red’s not joking anymore, head tilted slightly, calculating feel to the movement, “Poindexter?”

 

“Whatever,” he leans his head against the cool table, lets it muffle his voice.

 

“I don’t like you.”

 

“Wow,” he rolls his eyes for the benefit of nobody but himself, “I never woulda guessed.”

 

“I don’t like what you do,” Red continues, barely pays attention to what he’s got to say, “But Elektra seems to trust you and I trust her.”

 

_ You shouldn’t,  _ he bites back the thought as the waitress brings out their food. 

 

She sets a plate down in front of Red and he sits up in time to give her space to put out all of his food. He’s hungry, really, wasn’t trying to make a show by ordering so much, hasn’t eaten much since  the hospital.

 

It’s probably not the case, but it sure looks like Red’s glaring at him, so he turns to the waitress to see if he can shake the uncomfortable, gnawing feeling at the back of his mind.

 

“Thanks for the food. Didn't mean to scare you like that earlier.”

 

Red looks surprised, well, as surprised as he can behind the dark glasses. Probably wasn’t expecting him to do that, doesn’t need to know that he wouldn’t’ve done it if Red wasn’t messing with his head.

 

Red tilts his head again, “You’re really going to eat all that?”

 

Bullseye pulls the plate of eggs and bacon closer, starts cutting it up. Red copies only after he’s moving, feels for the toast and aims it towards the egg yolk.

 

“Haven’t eaten much lately, funds have been tight.”

 

Red freezes, doesn’t make it all the way to biting into the toast.

 

“Don’t worry, Red, I didn’t kill anyone to get this money.”

 

He smiles to himself, a private joke.  _ Your girlfriend did, but you don’t need to know that.  _

 

But that’s all the reassurance Red seems to need, he takes a bite out of the toast and heads back to sop up even more yolk, “You know my name’s not Red, right?”

 

“Yeah, and mine’s not Ben. But here we are anyway.”

 

That shuts him up, he frowns down at his eggs, probably doesn’t know how to do this when they’re so used to fighting each other. He’s out of his element, which makes this whole thing worth it.  Bullseye finishes off the eggs, moves on to the pancakes.

 

“I don’t get it. You’re so thrown off by me but you gotta talk with “bad people” damn near constantly. You’re a lawyer, Red.”

 

“I only represent people that are innocent.”

 

“No way they’re all innocent. Someone’s gotta be lying to you.”

 

“No,” Red’s hands tighten around the fork and knife, “They aren’t lying to me.”

 

That’s interesting. He must have some way of knowing, or he  _ thinks  _ he does. He hasn’t wised up to what Elektra’s doing, so it must not be as infallible as he thinks it is.

 

“Whatever you say,” Bullseye shrugs.

 

Red’s voice softens, drops his pride, “How’s Elektra? Is she okay?”

 

“She’s fucking crazy, but I think she misses you.”

 

“She’s the one who  _ left,”  _ Red sounds pained.

 

There it is again. More confirmation that Handsome’s the one who walked out. She wants to come back but she doesn’t think she can, even though she’s already here.

 

“She’s trying to help. Sure feels like she doesn’t have time for people she doesn’t like but she’s still workin’ with me. It’s for you.”

 

“I’m not convinced it is,” Red sighs.

 

“Fisk is planning something,” Bullseye drops his voice quiet, leans in close, doesn’t want anyone to overhear them talking business, “You shoulda seen her, she damn near killed him when he said your name.”

 

Red leans back, arms crossed. He’s barely touched his food at all.

 

“I… I have to get to work.”

 

That’s right. Red’s got a normal job, normal life, doesn’t want to go full time like Elektra and him. Red looks concerned, though, like Bullseye might not actually pick up the tab if he doesn’t hang around. It’s irritating, he always keeps his word; if he said he’d buy Red breakfast, then he’s gonna buy Red his damn breakfast.

 

Bullseye pulls out a roll of quarters from his jacket pocket, makes a show of laying down the coins on the plasticine tabletop, makes a click loud enough that Red has to know what he’s doing.

 

“I got you covered. Don’t worry.”

 

Red relaxes, gets to his feet. He looks so normal, doesn’t look like the devil at all.

 

“See you around, Matt.”

 

“You better hope not,  _ Bullseye _ .”

 

And then Red heads out, tap tap tapping of his cane drawing all the eyes to him. As soon as he’s gone, Bullseye grabs his plate too. He was hungrier than he thought, he oughta get some food to stock  the fridge with, needs something to last ‘til Fisk figures out his money.

 

He’s almost finished off all three plates when Elektra slides in to the seat across from him. He figured she was waiting around somewhere, but everything about this morning’s got him in a bad mood. 

 

The waitress has been avoiding him all this time, but she heads up when she notices the newcomer, fake smile plastered back on her face.

 

“Can I get you anything to drink?”

 

“No,” Elektra says, lip curled; it’s easy to picture Red nudging her into apologizing, same way he did this morning.

 

The waitress flounders, “Are you ready to order, then?”

 

Elektra softens slightly, “No, I am only here to talk to him.”

 

Waitress hightails it out of there again, doesn’t want to spend any time around either of them. She’s got more in common with him than Matty. Ain’t that an idea. He hasn’t had much time to roll it around in his head, but he’ll get there.

 

As soon as the waitress disappears back into the kitchen, Elektra smiles, “You did a good job this morning.”

 

“Fuck you,” he hisses, “You put me on the spot.”

 

“It was genuine, then. Matt likes genuine.”

 

“He’s got it bad for you, Handsome. Why don’t you just go in for the kill already?”

 

She could, if she wanted to. She probably knows that too. Then she won’t need him anymore and they’ll all go back to trying to kill each other and he won’t end up so tangled up in all this bullshit. It’s just gonna get him confused, get his head all screwed up again. 

 

(But then he won’t be in situations where he’ll have breakfast with Red, and he’d probably miss that.)

 

“Matt does not want me as I am, he wants me as I was when we were 19. That Elektra is dead. I need him to want  _ me _ .”

 

She’s getting sentimental, which means she’s slipping up, but it makes damn good sense. That’s why she needs his help, he’s got a good idea of what people will do. They need to push Matty until he’s okay with the fact the two of them are killers. They need Fisk out of the way. No use for Red if he’s too fucked up to be any fun. Besides, they can’t all be broken.

 

This won't last forever so he can't get comfortable with it, but maybe he'll get lucky and Elektra will let him stay close. He doesn't strike out on his own, doesn't want to be one of the big dogs. He wants to keep his head down and get paid enough to live. He's not so different from the rest of the people in here, just a man with a skillset.

 

She's the type that could rule the world if she wanted to, and they're all better off that she doesn't. But if she did, she could probably use an assassin. God knows Matty would never take up that mantle.

 

He's planning too far ahead, though. Can't wager on anything with that many variables. They have to get Red first and then figure it out from there.

 

He finishes up, stacks the plates carefully, “You're his weakness, you know that, right?”

 

Elektra almost looks hurt at the accusation.

 

“He can live with you breaking his code, you can talk him off the ledge. But it's gotta be slow, so slow Mr. Lie Detector doesn't get wise to it.”

 

She doesn't do anything to argue against Red being a lie detector, so there must be something to it.

 

“We need more to work with, you're his damsel in distress, he's trying to save you.”

 

“I will always save  _ myself, _ ” she spits; another way they're the same, but the similarity makes his skin crawl.

 

“And he  _ won't _ . So he wants to save you instead.”

 

Red is so desperate to help her, doesn't even realize she won't accept it. He's seen the rosary clipped to the Devil's belt, out of place unless he's playing for salvation. Red probably thinks he's the  exception, hence the horns.

 

She looks sad, worrying at her lip without meeting his eyes. The lipstick stains her teeth like blood. Most people don't get stuck saving themselves if there's someone in their corner.

 

She wrings her hands, once, twice, and straightens up, “Fisk has another job, we meet at five. He wants to discuss in person.”

 

“And we'll do our research first this time?” He raises his brows.

 

“Fine. Be ready when I arrive for you,” Elektra gets up, leaves him the same way Red did.

 

He sets out ten dollars in quarters, four in dimes, six in nickels. Organizes them into concentric circles next to the plates. Probably more than the food was worth but he's not hanging around for the check.

 

It's a calling card. People are already looking for him, but he's got a feeling Red won't let anyone get in the way until he's done with him. It’s the same reason he won’t let Fisk go too far with Red.


	7. and the man in the back is ready to crack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> title is from 'ballroom blitz' by sweet

He’s already in the new shirt, which is gonna make Fisk happy. That’s the plan now, keep Fisk happy and he won’t think they’re screwing him over.

 

There’s a certain kind of excitement to it; he’s never betrayed an employer like this. Sure, he’s swapped sides because the pay was better on the other team, but he’s never been one to get selfish.

 

He checks his shirt in the mirror again, straightens the collar, wishes he didn’t lose the damn cufflinks. When he gets paid, he’s getting himself some more clothes. It’ll give Elektra the satisfaction of being right, but she’s got a point to her look. Plus, it’s nice to have something to call his own.

 

He should probably squirrel away some of the money, especially after losing all the funds tied up in his bank accounts. After this all blows over, there’s a solid chance he’ll be strapped for cash.

 

It would be safer to just sell Elektra out but he could get caught in the crossfire. He’d save himself the worst of it, but there’s no way Fisk would reward him for it, might even think he’s in on it. And he’d have Elektra on his back, definitely out for blood if he ratted her out. And Fisk would make sure Red gets killed if he thought they tipped him off.

 

So he’ll keep his mouth shut, stick with Elektra.

 

Fisk is stupid, but he’s dangerous; Bullseye’ll only turn over if he has to.

 

Number one priority is always to save his own skin.

 

Things used to be so clear cut, but he’ll find his way out of this. He always does.

 

The sound of the doorbell snaps him out of it, Elektra’s probably here to get him. He straightens the shirt one last time and heads for the door. He’s expecting her, but he’s not expecting her to be so fuckin’ dolled up.

 

Her hair’s curled impeccably, hair piece with mesh pulled over her eyes, long dress with a slit almost all the way up the thigh, same leather gloves as always, pulled up to her elbows, scarf resting easy over her forearms like a shawl. She looks like she’s gonna gut him for gawking; he probably deserves it.

 

“We are going to a party.”

 

“We are?”

 

He hates party jobs, absolutely loathes them. None of the hassle is worth the free food.

 

She looks him up and down, dissatisfied, “I already took the liberty of buying you a jacket and tie. I did not think you already owned any.”

 

She’s right, but it still stings that she thinks so little of him.

 

“The limousine is waiting,” she says, turns on her heels, acts like it’s a completely normal thing to say.

 

He’s gotta run after her to catch up, but at least she holds the elevator door for him. For the first time since he’s got here, there’s other people in the elevator with them. Fisk’s got a wide reach in the city, most of them seem to be going to the party as well. There’s a couple who can’t keep their hands off each other, dressed to the nines and tucked into a corner. A refined looking older woman stands to his side, glaring over at Elektra. Probably jealous.

 

They hit the lobby and all spill out onto the tile floor. Elektra takes his arm, wide strides towards the revolving door. Sure enough, there’s a limo outside. She all but shoves him into it, sits next to him with her legs crossed.

 

“You will be my bodyguard for the night,” she’s got the tie in her hands now, “You will have to behave yourself.”

 

He flips the collar of his shirt up, lets her put the tie over his head. Her fingers move like she’s practiced at it, probably learned how to do this with Matty. It’s a thought that’s throwing him off, almost gets him flustered.

 

He counts his breaths, eyes fall shut and he can almost see her. Young, love-drunk, making sure Red cleans up nice. He puts himself in her place, pulling Matty’s tie tight. Lotta trust to think someone won’t just choke you with it. But he won’t and she won’t and he bets Matty _does_ clean up nice.

 

She pulls it just tight enough that he can feel it and his eyes flutter back open. He flips the collar back down, straightens it again out of habit.

 

Elektra gestures to his face, “You have to be more careful.”

 

“You and Red were the ones that did this to me. Not my fault.”

 

Her hands move to the bag resting against her thigh, lips pursed in a tight line. She fishes out a compact, pops it open.

 

“You will not stand out tonight.”

 

He nods, doesn’t say a word.

 

Lets his eyes close again when he feels her fingers on his chin, tipping his head back. Elektra dabs the concealer on, cool against the ache of the bruises.

 

“You think this is gonna cover it up enough?”

 

He’s only tried to cover up bruises once or twice. Most of the time, he wears them like a warning. Not a fuckin’ badge of honor. Nobody ever says anything, anyway. Cowards, all of them. Saying something makes it real and they don’t wanna deal with that.

 

But if Elektra says cover them up, he’s gonna do that.

 

“Yes,” her voice is matter of fact, definite, “It will cover bruises.”

 

The moment ends when she pulls away. The suit jacket’s resting on his other side, so he shrugs it on and tries to get his mind on work.

 

“Who’s the mark?”

 

Elektra looks down at her lap, fingers tapping against the place where the sais usually are, “There is no mark.”

 

“Then why the fuck are we here?”

 

The limo stops like it’s on cue, and she waits for the chauffeur to come to her door.

 

“You’ll see,” she steps out, flashes a well rehearsed smile.

 

He follows, puts a hand on her arm, right at the crook of her elbow. It’s a mirror of what she usually does with him. The vultures are out in full force, snapping pictures of the two of them as soon as they’re in sight. It’s a good thing people don’t recognize him often. The crowd forces mics at them from every angle, every opening.

 

“Miss Natchios, who--” “--designed your dress?” “Why are you here after--” “--your flight landed safely?” “Who’s that with you--” “--seeing anyone?”

 

She looks like she’s ready to stab someone, probably why she’s without the sais for once. Luckily, Fisk’s got his own security for the event; the suits shoo away the vultures, let them in the building.

 

There’s partygoers all throughout the building, but the main event is in the penthouse. After what happened outside, he gets why they’re being escorted up. Doesn’t mean he likes it, though. Feels too much like he’s about to get yelled at.

 

* * *

 

Half the people there, he recognizes. Only ‘cos he’s worked for them. He doesn’t seem to recognize any of the important ones. Any of the ones that approach Elektra and ooh and aah over her and ask how she’s been and what she’s been doing.

 

He’s been introduced as The Bodyguard to seventeen people, all of whom lose interest soon after that. It’s alright. Kind of demeaning, but he doesn’t have a cover and Poindexter’s a shot alias and nobody really cares what The Bodyguard’s name is.

 

He’s restless, needs to get moving. The only comfort is that Elektra looks like she’s hating this as much as he is. They’re mingling with the crowd, but nobody will let him get his hands on any of the champagne to help make this tolerable.

 

He’s in the middle of debating the pros and cons of decking the guy blathering at Elektra, and by extension, him when the room falls silent. Fisk’s on the stage, dwarfs the fucking podium and he’s got to choke back a laugh.

 

“We’re here tonight to remember the life of Hugo Natchios, businessman, ambassador, and father. His death was a tragedy that New York still feels to this day, and there’s no one better to honor him than his daughter.”

 

Fisk’s speech writer has gotten a hell of a lot better… And Elektra’s not standing next to him anymore.

 

“Would you please welcome to the stage, Miss Elektra Natchios.”

 

She steps up on stage, lets Fisk take her hand and lead her up to the podium. The look on her face isn’t angry anymore, more mournful, more pained. She grips the podium with her gloved hands, looks down for a few seconds before facing the crowd. It might just be nerves, but it feels like she’s watching him.

 

“It has been five years since my father was killed. I have not been back in the United States since his untimely death, nor have I spoken publicly since the funeral, but I felt that it was time to come forward and set the record straight. Those responsible have still not been brought to justice. I hope that by bringing more attention to this tragedy, we will be able to find them.”

 

Chatter’s picking up, people around him making conjecture, raising their hands in the hopes she’ll call on them. Some of the vultures are there, dressed in plainclothes, tape recorders in their jacket pockets. It’s gonna be a bloodbath if they aren’t careful.

 

Elektra’s hands tighten on the edge of the podium, she’s restraining herself, “This is _not_ a press conference. This is a benefit dinner held in memoriam. I am here so people know that he died a good man. I am here so people know that justice has failed him. I am not taking questions or giving a voice to muckrakers. I do not want _anyone_ to try to tarnish his memory.”

 

Fisk is stupid, should’ve known she wouldn’t be able to handle this. She’s testy about her father. One of the suits comes up to her, whispers something in her ear and her entire expression changes.

 

“I have invited my close friend, Matthew Murdock, to say a few words,” she’s shifted personas seamlessly, “He was very important to me during that time of my life. He did not know my father for long, but I know that he loved him as much as I did.”

 

Things are starting to come together now. Fisk wants her to get close to Red, doesn’t know she’s smarter than he thinks. He always underestimates the pretty ones, never sees past the smile. It means he’s still going after _Matt,_ but he doesn’t know what Fisk’s end goal is.

 

Elektra helps Red up on stage, hands lingering against his forearms. She barely touches her head to his cheek as she slides past him. The chatter all but stops when he taps his cane across the stage. He stops in front of the podium, Bullseye can see him tense when the suit touches him, tries to point out where the podium is even though Red’s already dead center of it.

 

“Like Elektra said, I didn’t know Hugo Natchios for long,” Red says, sounds more like a lawyer than he did at breakfast, “But I do know that this was a miscarriage of justice. I’ve done my best to stand by Elektra whenever she needed me, and I’m honored that she continued to think about me, even while she was away to mourn.”

 

It feels like he’s addressing the court instead of the public, long-winded and all just generic enough that it could apply to anyone. But that’s interesting, means he didn’t actually know the ambassador too well. It’s also important that Elektra sure doesn’t seem to want to hear what anyone has to say about him. No way he’s as good as she thinks he is, none of them ever are.

 

He doesn’t bother listening to all of Red’s speech, slips off to find Elektra and maybe get his hands on something to eat along the way. People don’t notice the staff; if you’re on payroll, you might as well be invisible. Nobody stops him, they’re all watching Red. No wonder he’s got a reputation; he’s got a commanding presence, passionate without being aggressive, and he really does clean up nice.

 

He finds her tucked off in an alcove somewhere. It’s not as well lit as the rest of the room and it looks like she’s crying but there aren’t any tears. Crying but not crying, going through the motions. When she notices him, she wipes at her dry eyes with the back of her gloves and straightens up.

 

“How much is he paying you for this?”

 

She grits her teeth, “Not enough.”

 

“Feel like old times?” Bullseye leans back against the wall, arms crossed.

 

“I hate parties. I always have.”

 

He laughs, shoots her a crooked smile, “Guess we’ve got something in common after all.”

 

Red finishes up, the crowd’s clapping but it sounds like they don’t know if they should be. The idea of running into Red, in a place like this, is almost electrifying, but he knows Fisk is watching. He’ll have to be careful.

 

“How much do you wanna bet that I can get that guy with a toothpick?” He gestures to an unremarkable looking man across the room.

 

Elektra doesn't bother with a response other than a snarl.

 

He scoffs, “I'm not gonna _kill_ him. Just make things interesting.”

 

“You need to _behave_ . Do not _embarrass_ me.”

 

He's through with playing nice. All anyone ever does is talk down to him. He wouldn't be doing this if it wasn't for Red.

 

“Is that what daddy dearest said to you?”

 

Her eyes go dark, teeth bared like an animal. He barely notices her moving and then his arm is twisted behind his back and she's digging his nose into the wall. She's gonna get blood on the wallpaper.

 

She leans over, hair on the back of his neck standing up, and she drops her voice low, “Is this what he did to you?”

 

She lets go of his arm, leaves him trying to choke back the taste of bile. So that's a yes.

 

He stalks off, keeps his head down. Better let her cool off before she breaks anything. He doesn't want to be here, but Fisk would kill him if he just walked out. He despises Elektra almost as much as he hates parties.

 

He oughta break his rule of not pickpocketing on the clock, just so he can get himself some consolation prizes, but he probably can't talk his way out of a fight if he gets caught. So he'll find Red. That'll really drive Handsome up the wall.

 

He weaves his way through the crowd, looking for him. Red likes to help people, doesn't seem to like being around them much. Not that Bullseye blames him after what the suit pulled in front of everyone.

 

Red's being polite, hopping from group to group after a greeting, a question or two. Bullseye catches him between groups, purposely walks right into him.

 

“Sorry, I didn't see you there,” Red laughs, probably figures it's better if he's in on the joke.

 

Bullseye barely runs his hands over Red's arms, makes his voice quiet, “Hello, stranger.”

 

Red goes stock still, muscles coiled taut as a drum. Bullseye slips into the rest of the crowd, turns back to see Red still stuck in place.

 

Elektra must’ve been tailing him while he was tailing Red because she slides right in to do damage control. They’re standing in the sea of people like they’re the only ones in the goddamn room, Elektra holding onto Red’s hands as they whisper.

 

Fisk is up to something, wouldn’t give up his ace in the hole without a reason. But it sure as hell helps everything line up; people look at Elektra like they recognize her because they _do._ He could pick at the situation a while, see if the pieces fall into place, but he’s got a relentless, restless buzz in his hands and not enough patience to try.

 

Back of his throat still tastes like bile and he’s got a feeling things will go bad if he hangs around any longer, so he slinks off to the bathroom.

 

Nobody tries to stop him, tries to talk to him. He’s The Bodyguard and that means he’s invisible, cuts through the crowd without a second glance.

 

It’s quieter in the bathroom, which almost makes it worse. He’s itching to be out in the city, out in the night. Never been a fan of feeling caged.

 

The concealer’s held up alright, but he doesn’t look like himself. Whoever it is has his eyes, doesn’t have his smile but it’s nailed the fucked up teeth, gap’s in just the right place. Can’t even try and snap himself out of it, might wash off the mask.

 

He’s holding the sink so tight his skin’s just as white as the porcelain, really brings out the bruises on his wrist--

 

“From Elektra,” he says, watches how the reflection’s mouth moves, “ _Elektra.”_

 

He hates her.

 

Doesn’t hate her the same way he hates Red, but they both make him want to turn tail and bolt, both got a knack for stopping him in his tracks.

 

At least Red’s never gotten inside his head like this. Might not even hate Red, when it comes down to it, but Red hates him and that’s just about the same.

 

Elektra’s good. Good enough to screw his brain six ways to Sunday, good enough to get Matty to give up his righteous mission. She’s better than him and that’s why he hates her.

 

But they’ve gotta play nice, which means he has to go back out and keep being The Bodyguard. Doesn’t even know what kind of a paycheck tonight’s gonna bring him, but he can already tell it’s not enough.

 

* * *

 

He finds Red and Handsome tucked away, off to the side of the crowd. Not hidden, but they don’t seem like they’re trying to hide.

 

They’re acting like kids, can’t keep their hands off each other. Matty’s bright red, Elektra sounds like she’s giggling. She’s holding his hands in her own, leading them.

 

She stops by her face, lets Red take over, fingers tracing over her cheekbones.

 

It’s easy to tell when an action’s been rehearsed. Makes you move a different way. They’re playing out a moment, a memory.

 

Mind wanders back to Red’s gloves against his skin, the crack of his head against concrete. Makes him twitch like someone just walked over his grave.

 

He’s never been one to get off on watching, sure as hell isn’t getting anything out of this, but he’s still there, can’t seem to move.

 

Elektra catches Matty by the tie, pulls him in for a kiss. Nice and gentle, not hard enough to hurt him. It’s about trust.

 

Maybe Elektra knows he’s there, maybe Red does too. Maybe he’s invisible.

 

Bullseye’s already heading for the elevator before he knows he’s moving. No use sticking around, he already knows how this ends.

 

They've got the situation under control, no need for him.

 

One of the suits stops him in the lobby, hand pressed to his chest, keeping him from walking out.

 

“You aren't supposed to leave yet.”

 

“I played my part, I'm done for the night. Tell Fisk to take it outta my paycheck.”

 

“You know that's not how this works.”

 

It feels like there's a knife in his eye socket, sharp slicing ache; he grinds the heel of his palm into his eye, trying to push it away.

 

“If you make me go back up there, I'm liable to brain one of the partygoers.”

 

He's wagering the people up there are important enough that the suit'll let him go.

 

The suit folds, “Five minutes.”

 

Bullseye'll be long gone by then.

 

But the suit pulls out a pack of cigs, same brand he always gets. He takes the pack and slips outside.

 

He doesn't run, just hangs around the entryway thanking himself for having the sense to bring along a few matchbooks. The headache isn't withdrawals, but the smokes help.

 

Fisk knows too much about him, thought of it sets him to shaking. He oughta raze the earth and start over, make sure Fisk doesn't find out anything this time.

 

He'd like to chain smoke the whole pack, but there's no ETA on his money and he's not begging another pack off the suits so he's gotta make it last.

 

Five minutes come and go and no one's there to drag him back into the party. So he pockets the smokes and starts walking back to his apartment. He'll deal with the fallout from Fisk another day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the semester's starting back up which is kind of kicking my ass but i've got like 5 unposted chapters already written so we're good for the foreseeable future


	8. got three passports, a couple of visas, you don't even know my real name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the title is from the talking heads song 'life during wartime'
> 
> the chapter's going up an hour early because boy howdy is life kicking my ass right now. i am busy NONSTOP

He stops outside the apartment building, lights up another one of the smokes. He could run if he wanted to, never come back to New York again. But all his money's tied up in frozen accounts or with Fisk.

 

He'll stick it out, it'll be worth it to watch Elektra kill Fisk.

 

But she might not get to that point. Fisk’s got something in mind, he's playing her, banking on her getting close to Red again. He might ask Bullseye to kill them both.

 

It's a game that Fisk can only play in the public eye. The pieces are Matt Murdock the lawyer, not the red Devil; Elektra the ambassador's daughter, not Elektra the assassin; Wilson Fisk the businessman, not the Kingpin. He needs them close again. Wants to hurt Matt because he can't get the Devil. Elektra's the weapon, pointed right at his heart.

 

Courtroom journalist dead, ex girlfriend back in the picture, Matt Murdock in the public eye. Bullseye's getting that restless feeling again; the parts are all there but they just won't line up.

 

He's in over his head, way above his pay grade. He's just an assassin. Used to be a thief but that's not a skillset he can use here.

 

Smokes the cig all the way down to the filter, lets it drop to the damp sidewalk. Elektra and Red looked happy, but it's not gonna last.

 

He's really checked out, absolute fuckin’ space cadet, didn't even notice the cat yowling at his feet. It's a ballsy one, moving on to using his leg like a scratching post since he isn't paying enough attention to it. Most of them skitter off soon as they notice you.

 

He picks it up, gets a few bloody scratches for his troubles. One eye missing, fur matted, hissing at him so he snarls right back. But he doesn't put it down.

 

It'll drive Elektra up the wall and maybe he won't bug out as much with something else around.

 

The cat doesn’t much like being held, keeps clawing at his hands. Likes it even less when he hides it in his jacket, supporting it just enough that nobody will really notice the cat. It doesn’t look like anyone’s gonna miss this cat, ratty little fucker that won’t stop hissing. Doesn’t have anyone else in the world.

 

He moves naturally, doesn’t try and act like he’s guilty. Still feels like everyone in the lobby’s watching him. Now that he’s more clear-headed, he’s got a sinking feeling that he shouldn’t’ve run out like that. Fisk doesn’t take kindly to people ignoring his orders.

 

He probably still needs Bullseye, looks like he’s planning on burning Elektra first chance he gets, but he can’t shake the idea that someone’s keeping tabs on him for Fisk. Gonna run off and tell him that Bullseye bailed.

 

He feels better after no one can see him, after the apartment door’s locked behind him. Oughta put the chain on, but Elektra likes to barge in without warning. The cat’s still squirming around, but if he sets it down now, he might never catch it again. 

 

So he heads to the kitchen and drops it in the empty sink; better clean it up and hope for the best because he’s not in the mood to deal with fleas. They’re a hassle to get rid of and Elektra wouldn’t think twice before dicing him if she brought ‘em home with her.

 

“Happy now? I put you down.”

 

The cat tries to climb out of the sink, so he shoves it back down. Not  _ hard _ , he really doesn’t mind most animals. They’ve never done anything much other than live their lives. Easy to predict, always follow the same set of paths. People are harder but he always gets it in the end.

 

He shrugs his jacket off, fast as he can while the cat’s still distracted, pushes his sleeves up to his elbows. When he turns the faucet on, it’s damn near ready to riot, claws his arms up quite nicely. The water isn’t hot, so it’s just throwing a fit about being wet.

 

“Shh, shh,” he holds it in place with one hand as he gets the half empty bottle of dish soap, “Can’t let you run around when you’re dirty.”

 

The yelling’s shifted to half hearted meowing as he works the soap into the cat’s fur.

 

All the pieces are right in front of him, but there’s no connections between them, no hint at the final destination. Can’t figure it out, at least not on his own. So fuck it, he’s gonna explain this whole situation to a cat.

 

“Now I’ve got this pal, Red, and he’s been a thorn in my side for a long while, boss feels the same way, but Red’s special girl just waltzed back into his life. Took my job in the process but we squared that up right quick.”

 

Funny thing is, the cat meows right as he pauses, like it’s really listening.

 

“Anyway, the boss has me and Red’s special girl on his payroll, and we got told to take care of a certain reporter, just so happens to report on Red. Red’s a lawyer, up and coming but people know his name. Red’s not his name but that’s what I call him.”

 

The water’s getting pretty dirty, must’ve been out there a long time. It almost looks pleased to be getting washed.

 

“So we finish the job, hop onto the next, and the boss gets Red’s special girl to get back with him. Now she’s freaky, real horrorshow, but she’s got a genuine soft spot for Red. I think the boss knows that, I don’t think she knows he knows that. But it’s gotta be part of the plan. Problem is, I don’t know what the plan is.”

 

The cat’s starting to look less like a grey cat and more like a splotchy black and white cat. Must be fate.

 

“And I don’t like not knowing what the plan is, don’t like not knowing where this is headed. So I’m trying to put it all together. We ice the reporter, one that’s taken a shine to Red, Handsome’s back in the news again, probably in a nice shot of her and Red swapping spit, and we’re trying to hit Red where it hurts.”

 

He rinses the cat off, wraps it up in one of the tea towels. It looks more content with being bundled up and held this time around, but the cuts on his arms still sting. He’s still got the concealer on, so he sets it down and hopes it doesn’t get too far while he washes his face. 

 

“Now my problem is,” he catches the cat before it jumps off the counter, looks it dead in the eyes, “I don’t know how this is gonna shake out. Red’s a lawyer, one of his groupies is outta the picture, but Handsome’s back in the picture. Doesn’t make a lick of sense unless--”

 

Unless they killed one of the key people in Red’s, no,  _ Matt’s  _ corner.

 

Unless Elektra’s a pawn, ‘sposed to fall back in love with him.

 

Unless Fisk is making sure there’s reason to doubt Matt.

 

Which means Fisk is trying to get him good, trying to get him disbarred. Leaves Matty burnt and the Devil careless. Fisk’s got enough dirt on Elektra just by having her on payroll to discredit Matty if he plays his cards right.

 

The cat reaches out, bats at his face.

 

“Oh, you’re good.  _ Real good _ . Helped me figure this whole thing out.”

 

Can’t say he was expecting it, but talking to the cat really did work. There’s a good chance it’ll continue to work, but Elektra’s got him on edge about prying ears. If he’s gonna keep doing this, he’ll have to make sure nobody’s listening.

 

He didn’t go looking for bugs before, been too busy for that and he didn’t have a good enough excuse. But the cat changes things. Nobody’ll think twice if he moves some of the furniture around, checks out the wiring. Anyone asks and he’ll say he’s cat proofing the place.

 

The cat’s starting to get agitated, fed up with being held. So he lets it run free, halfway tosses it to the ground. Little fucker lands right on its feet, takes off running. He can already get started on sweeping the place.

 

He’ll check the outlets first, that’s the hardest thing to explain away. Doesn’t want to bother with finding a screwdriver, so he uses one of the remaining quarters instead. The casing pops off and he pulls out the wires enough that he’ll be able to see anything that’s not supposed to be there.

 

First outlet’s clean, so is the second. There’s a mic in the third, so he undoes the wire and leaves it in place. No big deal if the audio goes dead in the kitchen, but Fisk’ll notice if it’s in the living room or the bedroom.

 

He’s ready to move to the living room, working his way around the apartment in a clockwise fashion. But he oughta clean up all that glass on the tile floor, otherwise the cat might hurt itself. He grabs a bowl from one of the cabinets, starts picking up the biggest chunks; nice and careful because cuts on his hands just won’t do. 

 

There’s no use for the small shards, but the big ones he can keep just in case. Everything in the damn kitchen can be a weapon when he’s holding it, but it helps to feel prepared. He sets the bowl of glass on the counter, just for now.

 

There’s a broom tucked into the small closet in the kitchen, so he sweeps up the rest of it. The floor’s clean, so he moves the bowl up into one of the cabinets, that way the cat won’t get into it.

 

Now he can move to the living room. The cat’s out there, tearing up the stupidly expensive couch. Serves the owners right for picking out furniture just because it looks good. He checks the next outlet; clean. So is the one after that. Around the fourth outlet, he’s starting to get twitchy. There’s something he’s missing.

 

He pulls out the damn thermostat control just in case and finds another mic. Harder to shut off without raising an alarm, but easy to muffle with part of a towel stuffed in there. He sets it back in place and heads to scour the bedroom.

 

Everything from the vanity’s still laid out on the floor. The cat trails after him, awful distracted by the jewelry. He picks up the gun, sets it back on the vanity's top. Leaves a gap behind but he figures the cat fills the space.

 

There's two nightstands, one on each side of the bed. Matching lamps which means matching sockets. He moves the nightstands, undoes the casings, finds nothing. There's gotta be something in the bedroom, so he takes the shades off the lamps and finds a mic wired into each of them.

 

That means he'll have to check the other light fixtures but he hasn't finished the first rotation of checking sockets. There's nothing in the bathroom, which either means he hasn't found it yet or Fisk has some sense of privacy.

 

He unscrews the overhead light, nothing there either. So he starts working back, counterclockwise this time. Climbs up on the bed to take the cover off the center light in the bedroom. The exposed lightbulbs leave after images in his line of sight but there's nothing up there.

 

Out in the living room, he finds another mic in the standing lamp and one tucked into the chandelier. He'll leave the chandelier one in and cut out the one in the standing lamp. There's no more in the kitchen, not a good enough hiding place.

 

He lays out the mics from the kitchen and the lamps on the coffee table, thinks for a second and grabs a pad of paper to jot down where the ones he left in are. Doesn't want to forget about them. It'll be easy to learn how to move to avoid the mics, and then they can control what Fisk hears.

 

He'll tell Elektra when she shows up next. She'll probably appreciate being able to talk freely.

 

The cat jumps up onto the couch next to him, one of the necklaces caught between its teeth. It's definitely growing on him. He takes the necklace from it, string of pearls hasn't snapped yet and it clicks against the coffee table when he sets it next to the bugs.

 

He scratches the spot behind the cat's ears, watches it blink nice and slow, copies the action. Barely has food for himself, much less a cat but he'll figure it out.

 

He's tired. More tired than he thought and the ache's catching up to him. Gotta avoid any more close quarters scraps.

 

He'll sleep it off, set the apartment back to rights in the morning.

 

* * *

He gets woken up by the cat digging its claws into his thigh. Blinks himself awake and finds it hissing at Elektra. He was smart to leave the chain off; she's gotta have a key.

 

“What did you  _ do?” _ She's got her brows furrowed, gestures to the living room.

 

All the socket covers are still off, nothing's touching the walls and the lamps are lying on the ground.

 

“Cat proofing.”

 

She raises an eyebrow, “Cat proofing?”

 

He pulls the cat off his leg, holds it up for emphasis. Then he drops it, stretches out before moving out of range of the chandelier mic.

 

“Swept the place,” he whispers, “Pulled out a few mics, they're on the table, but left enough in to keep Fisk happy.”

 

She doesn't look pleased, doesn't look like he did the right thing. She melts from confusion to anger, jaw set, arms crossed.

 

“You are in  _ trouble _ . You should not have left last night.”

 

Which means Fisk's livid, sent Elektra to read him the riot act because he might snap Bullseye’s neck.

 

He shrugs, “Woulda been in more trouble if I'd hurt anyone.”

 

“You need to take this seriously. Fisk took you off the next job. 'Get your priorities straight and then we'll talk,’ he said.”

 

“My priorities are just fine,” he snarls, “I'm an assassin, not a fucking escort. My contract says nothin’ about playing nice at parties.”

 

“No. You do whatever the job requires. You know how this works.”

 

“I get to  _ choose _ ,” his voice sounds strained, pulled thin, Fisk really has him on a tight leash, “Fisk won't give me money for food, I'm fuckin’ hallucinating  _ again, _ my nose is broken  _ again. _ The least I can do is get to choose what I will and won't do.”

 

Elektra looks at him like she's trying to read his mind, eyes narrowed and deadly. Sets him to rubbing at the bruises on his wrist. He told her too much, way too much. She's winning, plotting the next  move now that she's got an edge.

 

“You have two days,” she offers him a severe look, “If you are not capable and lucid by then, I will have to tell Fisk.”

 

“I'm doing  _ fine.  _ I'm always capable.”

 

She doesn't have to know he's been in a worse way than this and still managed to get the job done. She doesn't have to know anything more about him.

 

“Two days,” she repeats, heads right back out.

 

He locks the door behind her, puts the chain on this time. He scoops the cat up as it runs past him, rubs the top of its head until it purrs.

 

“I'm  _ fine _ .”

 

He's got two days to himself, though. Two days to get a leg up on Handsome. See how she likes it when he goes digging into her business. Probably can't get everything easily since she's from out of country but he can at least get her college records. He's got a contact that could help with the overseas intel.

 

He's down to the last of the money from the Cabbie, but he needs to eat. Wasn't trying to beg money off of Elektra but most people woulda slid him a few bucks for his troubles. So he'll go get something fast and cheap and work from there.

 

* * *

He ends up bringing the cat along, figures the poor fucker must be starving. It scrambles up his arms, stops at his shoulder, holding on for dear life. It's a perfect arrangement, can't even feel the claws through his jacket.

 

Doesn't know where anything else is, so he heads back to the diner from yesterday. He hasn't seen hide nor hind of the waitress he scared, so he probably isn't gonna get thrown out.

 

He gets eggs and sausage, gives the cat a bit of both. A couple of people are watching him, he can see them glancing at him like they’re subtle. He usually doesn’t stand out much, people don’t know what to look for, but the cat makes things hard.

 

Slips out after squaring up his tab, he’s got the college in mind. Columbia. He got that much from doing some digging on Matty and odds are, they went to the same place. You gotta finesse a situation like this, can’t draw too much attention. So he’ll head over there, poke around in the school archives, maybe even get his hands on her records.

 

When he gets close to the campus, he tucks the cat back into his jacket, tells it to behave. He probably should’ve dropped it back at the apartment, but it’s too late for that now. As much as it galls him, he’s taking a cue from Elektra; walks right into admissions like he’s been there a thousand times before.

 

There’s a line, but he doesn’t mind, gives him time to learn the back and forth. Everything’s got rules to it. No use in knowing where things are gonna land if you don’t know about the penalties.

 

It’s simple, plenty of reasons why people need access to their records. He’s just gotta pick one and hope it gets him far enough. He needs a bit to work with before he can shift to meet whatever people think he is.

 

“I can help whoever’s next!”

 

He’s a college kid, not good enough to be well known, not bad enough to be notorious, just average. Just part of the backdrop. Hungover, to explain the sunglasses, but nobody who’d stand out at the party. He steps up to the counter.

 

“I mighta misplaced my semester transcript, can you let me in so I can make a copy?”

 

She rolls her eyes, probably knows the line by heart, “What’s your name?”

 

“It’ll just take a sec,” he’s still got a chance to reign things back in, “Please, my folks’ll kill me if I don’t bring it home this weekend. Been breathin’ down my neck since last semester.”

 

She almost looks like she’s kind of considering it when the cat tries to crawl out of his jacket.

 

“Goddamnit,” he hisses, “I told you to  _ behave.” _

 

“Is that a cat?” she’s hiding a giggle behind her hand.

 

“Nope. Cats aren’t allowed on campus, don’tcha know?”

 

“Right,” she says, trying to keep a straight face, “What was I thinking? It’s not a cat.”

 

She leans over, scratches under its chin, drops her voice down low, “What’s his name?”

 

“His name’s Bullseye,” he grins, flashes the gap in his teeth.

 

“I  _ suppoooose  _ I could let you in for a second, but the cat stays here.”

 

“Deal.”

 

He pulls the cat out of his jacket, hangs around until he’s sure it won’t bolt. It looks half asleep as she’s petting it, only stops as she buzzes him back into the filing room.

 

It’s easy to find Elektra, under N for Natchios, right at the front of the first drawer. He didn’t think they’d keep records for that long, but it’s his lucky day. He skims over it, nothing interesting. Here on a student visa, dropped out in her second year. No transcripts from previous schools, just a note that she was homeschooled.

 

He puts the file back and slips out into the lobby again.

 

“So what’s your program?” She’s twirling the cat’s tail around her fingers idly.

 

“Physics.”

 

“I haven’t seen you around before.”

 

“Don’t get out much, these days.”

 

“ _ Still _ ,” she looks him over, “You’ve gotta be in one of my math courses, but I don’t recognize you.”

 

“I’m doin’ specialty ones. Big focus on trajectories, where things are gonna land. I can tell you how to hit a perfect homerun every time, but then I’d have to kill you.”

 

She laughs, only stops when she realizes there’s still a line behind him.

 

“I gotta go,” he says, scoops up the cat again, turns on his heels.

 

“Wait!”

 

He looks back, finds her waving.

 

“Bye, Bullseye! And maybe we’ll run into each other again, stranger.”

 

He shoots her a half smile on the way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fuck you, the cat is a plot point. a plot point that has affectionately been named bullseye jr in all of my notes


	9. i've been reborn so many times, i can't remember them all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> title is from 'who do you want to be' by oingo boingo

It takes all the effort he can muster not to just bolt as soon as he’s out of the building. He keeps a nice, meandering pace, moves like he’s supposed to be there. He’s gotta blend in, gotta just be another college kid.

 

But he’s not.

 

And the thing that’s really tripping him up, really fucking with his head, is that he  _ could’ve  _ been. It’s the same as Elektra, one point, one instant, and everything’s knocked off course. She and Red both went here, could’ve been anyone he passed by today.

 

He could’ve been here instead.

 

He slipped right into the lie, let the secretary take the lead but she believed him because he fit the part. He’s not stupid, no matter what everyone seems to think. No, he just keeps his head down. Stupid gets you killed.

 

And he’s got money, more than he knows what to do with. He could take a few years off and come back when his head’s screwed on right. 

 

It’s an empty fantasy, he doesn’t have a name that will get him anywhere other than a jail cell or on someone else’s payroll. Probably couldn’t survive in a classroom, either, hasn’t been in one for over a decade. 

 

He’s just wandering now, body moving back to the apartment without any direction from him. Didn’t get much out of the trip to the college, but he kind of knew most of the important details would be in Greece. He’s got contacts, doesn’t know if anyone will answer since he’s been out of commission for so long and when he’s working, he’s always on Fisk’s retainer.

 

His memory’s shot, probably had something to do with the brain tumor, lots of blank spaces where there oughta be something. But he remembers a handful of phone numbers, has enough coins left to get him through the list.

 

When he stops at the nearest payphone, the cat crawls its way back up to his shoulder again. He tucks the reciever in the crook of his neck, hip cocked out to the side as he puts in the coins and dials the first number he thinks of.

 

It rings five times, long enough that he’s ready to accept the fact that nobody will pick up, long enough that the cat gets bored and starts licking his hairline. Somebody picks up midway through the sixth ring, sounds like there’s a lot of people in the room just based off the background noise.

 

“Thank you for calling Belinda’s Antiquities. How can I help you today?”

 

He doesn’t recognize the voice at all, but he knows the number. He’s sure he typed it in right. There’s a fifty-fifty chance that this is either the front for an arms dealer or just an antiques shop he can rattle off the number for. Either way, he’s not feeling lucky today.

 

“I may have the wrong number,” he says, hangs up.

 

He moves onto the next one, gets nothing but radio silence. He wasn’t expecting much, hoping for a lot more than was realistic. People change numbers all the time and he’s been out of the loop since he hopped ship to Fisk’s team.

 

The next number rings twice, clicks like it’s been picked up but there’s only a steady buzz of quiet.

 

“Hey,” he says, cups his hand around the receiver, “It’s Bullseye, I was wondering if you could--”

 

“No. Not today, not ever, Bullseye.”

 

He recognizes the voice, can’t put a name to it though. Probably burned a lot of bridges when he swapped sides but it was the safest thing to do in the moment. Even though he works alone most of the time, he’s not too keen on losing contacts.

 

The next number brings him to a voicemail but he doesn’t recognize the name, so he hangs up. The one after that gives him a frazzled sounding woman, kids in the background. Maybe he knew her once, but they’re worlds apart now. He apologizes, plays it off as a wrong number and hangs up.

 

He’s at the end of his list, crosses his fingers in the hopes that he didn’t waste all his change for nothing. The call gets picked up right away.

 

“Who is this? Who gave you this number?”

 

There’s something cold, something sharp to the voice, sends a shiver down his spine.

 

He drops his voice quiet, half out of respect, half out of paranoia, “It’s Bullseye.”

 

“ _ Bullseye _ ?” The woman on the other end of the phone sounds surprised.

 

“Yeah, I need a favor. Gotta get my hands on some intel.”

 

“Who’s the mark? Cut me in and I’ll help.”

 

“Nah, Dom, it’s not business. This is personal,” he twirls the cord around his fingers, “Lookin’ for anything you can find on Elektra Natchios.”

 

She makes a skeptical noise, “Uh-huh.”

 

“We’re workin’ together. I’m vetting her. Look, I don’t have anything right now, been down on my luck of late, but I’ll wire you pay as soon as I’m back on my feet.”

 

“Don’t worry about it,” her voice gets as soft as it can, “You’ll just owe me one. You better answer when I come to collect.”

 

He smiles into the receiver, “I’ll be waiting. I got a private line in my apartment, but I dunno if it’s secure.”

 

“We can reconvene here in a day, it shouldn’t take long, as long as it goes my way.”

 

“Sounds good.” 

 

He waits for the click of her hanging up before doing so himself.

 

They’ve worked together a time or two and he trusts her enough to know that her information is probably good. The more well known ones are always easier to get dirt on, makes people more willing to accept a bribe. It stings knowing he doesn’t even have enough to foot the bill on a job this small. 

 

It’s been slow going since he got out, doesn’t help that Elektra put him out of commission right after he was back on the market. Most everyone knows he’s on Fisk’s retainer and you don’t mess around with Fisk’s toys. The few who live under a rock and the ones ballsy enough to try and double book him know about the tumor. It was talk of the town and now he’s a liability.

 

He feels like he’s been run ragged, still waiting on all his cuts and bruises to heal up. Would probably go faster if he didn’t keep making it worse, but he’s never been one to learn from his mistakes.

 

The cat isn’t too happy with the present situation, moved on to biting at his ear, scratching the side of his face. He grabs it by the scruff of its neck, cradles it back in his arms. There isn’t much else to do other than go home and fix up the apartment and wait.

 

* * *

Back at his place, he lets the cat run free. First things first, he’s gotta put the outlet covers back on before the cat chews through any wires. It’s definitely growing on him even if he’s covered in fresh cuts from it.

 

After that, he sets the bookshelves and tables back up, puts them right where they were before he moved everything. But that looks bad, can’t explain how he found the bugs if he puts everything back where it was. So he moves things around, just enough that he can brush it off as making the place his own.

 

He straightens up the kitchen, makes sure there’s no more glass on the ground. Double checks that the bowl’s still in the cupboard and that there’s no way the cat can get into it. He doesn’t need to keep things like that around, but it helps him breathe a little easier.

 

Then, he heads to the bedroom. One of the lightbulbs on the overhead light is burnt out, must’ve forgot to turn it off the night before. He puts the cover back on, but the dark spot is still painfully obvious. 

 

He stares up at it until the lights are burnt into his eyes, one gap in the points of white every time he blinks. There’s a kind of gnawing feel of wrongness, one that sends him back to the kitchen to dig through the little supply closet. 

 

Isn’t much else in there other than the broom; a mop, some dusters, couple jugs of bleach, and there sure aren’t any light bulbs. He doesn’t have the money to buy another set, at least not until Fisk follows through. If he’s still feeling ballsy tomorrow, he’ll go over there and get Fisk to give him his damn money.

 

For now, he heads back to the bedroom, clicks on the two little lamps and shuts off the overhead light and works by that. The cat’s ruined the careful placement of all the things from the vanity, so he might as well pack it back up.

 

He tries to set everything back in the right drawers, he really really does, but it’s already gone kind of fuzzy in his mind and the cat’s moved everything out of order. He’s not mad at it, it doesn’t know what it’s doing, but he’s still feeling kind of restless and riled up.

 

But it’s  _ his  _ place.

 

He doesn’t have to put everything back in the right drawers. 

 

He can decide what’s right and what isn’t. 

 

He doesn’t even need to keep all this shit, he can just give it to Elektra or try and sell it and hope nobody traces it back to the previous owners. That’d get him some money, but it’s a dangerous game to play. He knows about careful, knows how important it is.

 

He hasn’t been careful lately. Been getting too comfortable, letting things slip. He’s gonna get burnt.

 

He’s got about a day and a half left to fix everything. No more half-assing jobs, no more begging for money, no more letting Elektra throw him off his game, no more Red.

 

It won’t be easy, but his reputation is already destroyed and like Elektra said, people want him lucid. Which means working days and sleeping nights and actually eating and not checking the fuck out of reality on a daily basis.

 

* * *

Not having anything to do turns out to be mind-numbingly boring. There’s only so much time he can spend trying to keep the cat entertained and he’s half wondering if Elektra’s trying to tip him over the edge instead of getting him sobered up.

 

He’s sitting on the ground, back against the wall, mindlessly toying with one of the necklaces as the cat bats at it. Gives him something to do, something to keep his hands busy.

 

She didn’t even tell him what the job is; there might not even be a job. She and Fisk might’ve just cut him loose, left him to rot with nothing to his name.

 

He went too far, even started trusting her a hair, almost fancied her a partner.

 

Fisk likes her better, probably doesn’t even need him anymore.

 

What does he even know about her anyway? 

 

He’s got a name, a college, and a country. Nothing else. And he was stupid enough to start believing her. Doesn’t even know where she lives, doesn’t know where she’s spending the next two days, doesn’t know how much she’s told Fisk about him.

 

He’s been following her mindlessly, doing anything she tells him to. And she isn’t even  _ paying  _ him. (Not that Fisk is even paying him anymore, these days.)

 

He should’ve been smarter with his contacts, should’ve put out feelers for another contract. Not that anyone seemed to thrilled to hear from him, but he should’ve tested the waters.

 

He  _ could  _ go back to palming trinkets, fencing them for pocket change. That’d keep him fed, not quite  _ well  _ fed, but still. 

 

No telling if Fisk will let him keep the apartment, which would mean he’s back to square one. He could sell the shirt at a consignment shop, provided Elektra doesn’t take it back.

 

But he’s not even sure if Fisk would let him stay in  _ New York. _

 

It might be nice to start over somewhere else, but he’d probably lose it in any other city. Nothing below the Mason-Dixon line would be remotely tolerable and he couldn’t abide by the West Coast.

 

He almost jumps out of his damn skin when the cat lands in his lap. Probably got tired of him not paying enough attention to it.

 

“Okay, okay,” he says, rubbing at the spot under its chin until it purrs, “What should I do?”

 

The cat doesn’t respond, not that he thought it would. It just settles down into his lap, eyes closed as he keeps on petting it.

 

“Yeah, I guess I’ll sleep it off.”

 

* * *

It’s well into the afternoon when he wakes up again, still in the clothes from the party. He’s gotta be ready for his contact to call back, didn’t think he’d sleep that long.

 

He's cold and the ache of all the scraps he's been in is really starting to kick in so he makes time for a shower. The cat hangs right at the edge of the stall, dipping its paw in only to pull back lightning quick.

 

It's warm, feels good, but he's gotta stay present, has to make it to his meeting. So he doesn't let his eyes close and he counts the seconds.

 

When he wipes the steam from the mirror, he can see that the bruises around his eyes have settled into a nice mottled look, darker in the center and lighter around the edges. 

 

Elektra could probably tell him the color, but it doesn't matter much in the end. He already knows they're gonna stick around for a while. He's got more on his forearms, some wicked ones on his knees. They don't heal easily, a day hasn't gone by where he doesn't have at least one.

 

He should probably just cover up the mirror.

 

Shakes his head to snap out of it, gets dressed, runs to make sure he gets there in time.

 

* * *

The phone rings soon as he’s close to it. It's the right pay phone, the path to it is completely clear in his mind.

 

He's almost desperate as he grabs it, “Hey, what did you find?”

 

“You need to be more careful,” the contact laughs, “You're lucky it was actually me. Her records have definitely been cleaned up, maybe even doctored. No birth certificate, but the story is it got lost in a flood. No idea who the mother is, homeschooled most of her life.”

 

“So you got nothing?” He scowls.

 

“No, just saving the best for last. It's under an assumed name, Cassandra, but I think your girl was in a psych ward. It's from mythology, just like Elektra, the Oracle no one believed.”

 

He finds himself biting at his nails in lieu of a toothpick, “Could be a coincidence.”

 

“Nothing's a coincidence when it comes to me.”

 

“Fine, Dom, then what was she in for?”

 

“She went in early March, 1972. The notes say violent urges towards herself and others and delusions, potentially hallucinations.”

 

He drops the damn receiver. Doesn't realize it's just dangling there until it sinks in that the contact isn't talking to him anymore.

 

He picks it back up, doesn't bother listening to what she's got to say, “Thanks, I have to go.”

 

He hangs up, leans back against the wall, digs his palms into his eyes and focuses on the ache of the bruises.

 

He knows why March of 1972 is important, but he has to check something.

 

He bolts for the library, vaguely worried about leaving the cat on its own for so long but he's got more important things on his mind. He heads back up to the microfilm archives, doesn't even bother with the pretense of asking permission. Already knows exactly what he's looking for.

 

It takes a couple tries to get the roll in the reader, but he does it. Scrolls down to the article he's looking for.

 

‘ _ Child Hero Blinded In Accident’ _

 

March 6th, 1972.

 

It doesn’t give a name, but he knows it’s Red. Nobody else it could be, the story lines up with the obituary of Battlin’ Jack Murdock years later. Outlived by his only child, the blind orphan, newly admitted to Columbia.

 

There are no articles about him. He’s checked, more than once.

 

Nobody came looking for him, probably knew the fucker deserved it. Nobody wanted to admit what was happening, not that it was much of a secret from the get-go. Nobody cared, so he took matters into his own hands.

 

It’s nothing like New York, everyone knows everything here, all the nitty gritty details. More fun than the soaps ‘cos it’s all real. Back home, they figure it’s not real as long as nobody says anything. So they look past the bruises, look past the empty seat where he should be, look past the body in the trailer.

 

People like Benjamin don’t get articles, but he’s got all the Bullseye ones saved.

 

He kept them all in a little notebook. Doesn’t have it anymore, so it’s probably back in Rikers giving New York’s finest something to puzzle over. It’s nice to think of them racking their brains over him, but he really just misses it.

 

He could ask Red, see if he could get it back. But that’s not something he can do right now. 

 

If Elektra is coming back, and that’s a big if, then she’d be able to get a message to Red. Which means he has to stay on her good side, even if he’s got an ace in the hole. He’s got the sense that she’s not someone you can blackmail, which makes her working for Fisk all the more confusing.

 

The apartment’s set back to rights, but he oughta go make sure everything’s perfect. She wants him lucid and capable. He can manage that.

 

She doesn’t have to know that her stint in the psych ward and Matty’s accident and killing his father all happened about the same time. But they’re connected, it’s gotta be fate. Which is why he has to keep her around.

 

He’s been too antagonistic, hard to tell when he’s gone too far since she never reacts. Play his cards right and maybe he’ll get to see Matty again, not the Devil, not the mask.

 

And playing his cards right means he has to make sure the apartment looks right. Has to make it look like someone lives there. Someone who’s lucid and capable.

 

He doesn’t look  _ great _ , but he always looks beat to shit and it’s hard to tell where the bruises end and the bags under his eyes begin. He’s been sleeping a lot lately, more than he oughta, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t look exhausted.

 

* * *

The cat started to tear up the curtains while he was out, probably wasn’t too keen on being left alone.

 

“Don’t do that,” he says, picks it up, “What would Elektra think if she walked in here and saw our curtains all shredded?”

 

He lets the cat down, pulls the curtains back and opens the blinds. It’s a good touch; most people seem to like the natural light. He just needs to be whoever Elektra and Fisk want him to be until they trust him again.

 

He’ll fix up the apartment, he’ll get his money, he’ll buy some clothes and some more needles and some thread and some throwing knives and more packs of smokes and everything will be perfect.

 

Must be out of his mind because he’s in the kitchen digging through the closet for a duster, but that’s what people do. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since anyone was in there, since anyone dusted. Cleaners are usually just there for blood and the like.

 

He stirred up most of the dust when he went looking for bugs, but it still feels like what he oughta do. Starts off by moving the figurines off their various stands, sets them up on the table with the other angels. Someone out there has a sick sense of humor, sticking him in a place like this. No little devils to be found, almost a shame ‘cos he’d keep one set aside for Red.

 

There’s an empty spot, untouched, underneath the base of each of them. He’s kind of looking at them, kind of not when the doorbell rings.

 

Elektra doesn’t ever ring the doorbell. If Fisk wanted him dead, they woulda just shot through the door. The list of people who could possibly be at his front door ends there.

 

He turns towards it, keeps still, barely dares to breathe. Reaches for one of the angels on reflex, tests the weight of it without a sound. Whoever it is is one persistent fucker, moves on to knocking on the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the source is actually domino, i wanted to do a little bit of an easter egg and honestly, who better than a lucky expert marksman merc??


	10. oh the devil will find work for idle hands to do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> title is from the smiths song 'what difference does it make?'

He’s still holding the angel tight when he starts moving towards the door. It’s careful, measured, knows exactly how to shift his weight so the floor doesn’t make a sound. Not that anyone knocking on his door is gonna just up and leave, but if he’s quiet, he can get the jump on them.

 

“Elektra? Are you there? I… I just want to talk.”

 

So it’s Red. He settles in front of the door, holds his breath for fear that Red might be able to hear him. He squeezes one eye shut, looks through the viewer. Red’s fingers keep working over his tie, glasses reflecting back the number on the door.

 

(Probably was a one in a million chance that he got to see Matty’s eyes.)

 

“Please, I-I just want to…” Red trails off, “Elektra, I want this to work this time.”

 

He leans over ‘til he’s right at the crack between the frame and the door, drops his voice low enough that only Red can hear, “Elektra’s not here, Matty.”

 

Through the gap, he can see Red stiffen up at the sound of his voice.

 

“Where-where is she?” The sliver of Matt shifts to straightening his glasses.

 

“Fuck if I know. Told you this was my place.”

 

“When will she be back?”

 

“I dunno.”

 

“I don’t know where else to  _ go _ ,” he sounds strained, “I haven’t heard from her since--”

 

“The party, right?” Bullseye unlocks the door, slowly, even though Red can probably hear him.

 

He leaves the chain on, opens the door enough that he can actually see Red, “Haven’t seen her since. Same as you.”

 

Doesn’t really feel like explaining the instructions Elektra left him with, not to Red, not to anyone, so he’ll keep the last conversation secret.

 

“I just wanted to talk,” he repeats, “I don’t know how to find her.”

 

Gotta admit it, he’s got a bad feeling about the fact Red doesn’t seem to know where she is or when she’ll be back. She could be long gone, two days is a hell of a head start. It’s a smart move, leaving him with a target on his back and nobody else for Fisk to take out his anger on.

 

“Maybe she skipped town,” Bullseye shrugs, can’t let it sound like a truth, “Left us both to rot.”

 

Red’s hands tighten around his cane, jaw set with a snarl.

 

“Isn’t that what she always does?”

 

Steps back just in time for Red to reach through the door, probably wants to throttle him but he’s just out of reach. He steps forward, only wants Matty to hear him.

 

“After all, she ain’t the type to settle down, is she?” Smiles crookedly to himself.

 

Red catches his shirt this time, pulls him hard enough that his head hits the edge of the door. No telling if it was intentional or not. Anything to take his mind off the possibilities, her running makes  more sense than any scenario where she stays. She got Red, figured out it wasn’t gonna be just like old times, wised up to how stupidly risky this whole thing is.

 

“I dunno where she is,” he whines, palm pressed to the new gash in his forehead, “Didn’t tell me or anything. Just said she’d be back and I’d better be lucid by then.”

 

Red lets go of his shirt, steps back and straightens his blazer.

 

“This was a bad idea.”

 

Bullseye scowls, “No shit.”

 

And Red turns on his heels, tap-tap-tapping his way back to the elevator. There’s blood on the edge of the door; head wounds always bleed the most. He nudges it shut with his knee, doesn’t want to take the pressure off the cut. He’ll clean that up later. Not too much later, in case Elektra sees it, but not now.

 

He’ll get back to it when the bleeding stops. No use leaving a job half done, even if she isn’t coming back.

 

He makes his way over to one of the armchairs, all but collapses into it. If she’s not back tomorrow, he’ll go to Fisk and Fisk’ll either make sure he’s good and dead or give him his money. That is,  unless Elektra took his share and left.

 

It doesn’t fit, she’s  _ got  _ money, probably still has a trust fund left over from dear old dad. She doesn’t do it for the money. But she sure as hell doesn’t like him, so that’s a reason she might screw him over, cut and run.

 

Peels his hand away slowly, blood’s already starting to go tacky and he’ll probably open it back up in the process but he needs something other than his bare hand to keep pressure on it. He’ll use one of the washcloths, maybe get some peroxide when he gets paid but cold water and salt should do the trick for now. There’s bound to be salt in the apartment.

 

There’s a headache already starting to build behind his eyes and the pressure kind of helped but he knows he’s been knocked around more times than anyone oughta. Can’t be good for him. Already regrets opening up the blinds.

 

He pushes himself up, careful not to get blood on the armchair. Makes his way over to the bedroom, doesn’t bother with the lights. He rinses off his hand in the bathroom, digs around in the little drawers until he finds a washcloth to press to the cut. There’s barely enough light to see the outline of his face, but it’s better that way.

 

It’s better to bite the bullet and work through the headache, hurts less in the long run than stewing in his own thoughts.

 

He staggers back out to the living room, pulls the blinds shut but not the curtains. It dulls the ache a little bit, still gives him enough light to work by. He started dusting, so he should probably finish that. It’s something he can do one handed.

 

The darkness doesn’t exactly make it easy for him to see what he’s dusted and what he hasn’t, so he runs over all the different sideboards a couple of times for good measure. Then, he sets the figurines back up, careful arcs organized by weight, by how they feel when he picks them up one by one.

 

Feels like the cut’s stopped bleeding, so he rinses out the washcloth in the kitchen. Might as well use it to wipe down the door, since it’s already got blood on it. He doesn’t feel like opening it, too much harsh light in the hallway, but it’s only the inside of the door that matters.

 

Since he’s already wiping things down, he oughta scrub the kitchen floor, just make sure all the glass is actually gone. The cat weaves between his legs as he moves back to the kitchen. He can’t actually see in the closet, but he feels for a sponge. No use wasting the bleach, so he settles for the last of the dish soap and sets to work.

 

Kneeling on the tile can’t be helping the bruises on his legs and about halfway through the kitchen, the cat jumps on his back and decides it likes it up there. At least all of this is keeping him busy. Headache isn’t bad enough to white out his vision so there’s that.

 

Once he reaches the threshold between the living room and the kitchen, he stops. Has to shrug the damn cat off his shoulders, but then he stands up and stretches out. Whatever was left of daylight is gone by now; the room isn’t quite dark but it’s a softer light than before.

 

He stretches out, practically pops all the joints in his damn body, but it feels good.

 

And then his arm is pinned to the wall.

 

He blinks, once, twice, and can kind of make out a shadowy silhouette but his eyes aren’t all that reliable.

 

“Did you throw a sai at me?”

 

The blade catches the moonlight ever so slightly and he scowls at it.

 

“I heard movement. The apartment did not look like it should be occupied,” Elektra says, “I assumed someone was not supposed to be in here.”

 

It went right through his sleeve, easy enough to pull his arm down, let it cut through the fabric and free his hand.

 

“You’ve got shit aim,” he huffs, “Shoulda went for the hand. Then I wouldn’t be able to do much of anything.”

 

He lunges for her, banks on her not being adjusted to the darkness yet. She dodges the first time, only manages to knock him over because he doesn’t trust the shadows enough to commit to a second attack.

 

“What were you doing in the dark?”

 

He sits up, works at catching his breath, “Cleaning.”

 

“In the  _ dark?”  _ He can practically hear her raising an eyebrow.

 

“Yeah. I gotta headache.”

 

Elektra flicks the lights on anway, makes him wince. She’s staring at him, staring at the new cut on his forehead. It’s almost as bad as the people who just ignore it.

 

“Red stopped by, looking for you,” he gestures to the gash, “Even left a message.”

 

She ignores him entirely, crosses her arms over her chest, “You did not clean very thoroughly.”

 

“Fuck you.”

 

“There is dried blood on the carpet.  _ I _ would have cleaned that first.”

 

He gets to his feet, glares down at the mottled two-tone carpet like it owes him money but he doesn’t see any bloodstains at all. She could just be fucking with him, but she doesn’t usually play like  this.

 

He frowns, “There’s nothin’ there.”

 

But that doesn’t make sense, because he remembers Elektra bleeding on the carpet a few nights back. She’s shooting him a calculating glare and he almost recoils, doesn’t like the way she’s eyeing him up.

 

“It all looks the same, carpet’s all kinda medium gray and dark gray.”

 

He gets the feeling that that’s the wrong answer, just from the way she’s looking at him.

 

“You do not see colors,” she says, awfully matter of fact about it.

 

“I can see colors,” he wrinkles his nose, “Some colors.”

 

“Not the important ones, evidently.”

 

“I know what blood looks like. Looks the same as your scarf. Not my fault the carpet’s intentionally confusing.”

 

She makes this low, half growl of a sound, “You are like a  _ child! _ You refuse to admit that you are  _ wrong!” _

 

He looks away from her, doesn’t want to meet her eyes anymore, “Did you come here just to yell at me or was there a reason to this?”

 

Elektra huffs, doesn’t seem like she’s gonna offer any sort of reply. He’s getting antsy, scoops the cat up next time it runs by and softens up a bit to try and get her to calm down.

 

“Where were you? We thought you skipped town.”

 

She turns to look back at him, eyes wide, and it hits him. 

 

_ We.  _

 

Meaning _ Matty and I, we  _ thought you skipped town.

 

“I said it would take two days. It has been two days. I came back just when I said I would.”

 

He wants to argue, can’t even do that without letting on to the fact that he was actually scared that she’d left for good. So he’ll keep trying to keep her happy, give her just enough that she won’t think he’s useless but not so much that she won’t need him anymore.

 

“I figured out what Fisk’s planning,” he says, nice and even, barely counts as bait, “Course, it’d help knowing what you were up to.”

 

“It had nothing to do with Matt. We are on retainer for any job Fisk needs done. I cleaned house on an organization that was pocketing part of their profits.”

 

He can see her, slicked head to toe in blood. It's gonna be on the news for sure, she needed to cut loose real bad. He's only partly disappointed that it wasn't connected to the bigger picture.

 

“Which is why you didn't tell Red you were leaving.”

 

She worries at her lip, but she still nods.

 

He's frustrated, but she seems calmer and he'd like to keep it that way, “Fisk's trying to get him disbarred. Wants to hit Matt hard since he can't touch the Devil.”

 

“Are you sure?” There's no argument, no attempts to undermine him, no disbelief.

 

“Think about it, we iced the reporter who'd go to bat for Red, and then he's tied up with you publicly, you, who Fisk has enough dirt on to bury alive, you, who's been real buddy-buddy with  _ me _ . Any of that gets out and it becomes awful suspect that you were swapping spit with him.”

 

Elektra purses her lips, lost in thought, “Which leaves Matt with nothing left to lose.”

 

_ ‘Cept for you, but you don't need to know that. _

 

“So he'll lash out, get real careless, and then one day he'll slip up and it's,” he mimes slitting his throat, “The mask comes off and then his reputation is ruined forever. Everything Fisk said was true.”

 

“It will not be that easy,” she looks unconvinced.

 

“I never said it'd be  _ easy,  _ but people love Fisk. He's like you, got a foot in both worlds. He's a businessman first and foremost.”

 

“If you are right-”

 

“I'm always right. Never miss the mark.”

 

She shoots a glare his way, “If you are right, we have to warn Matt.”

 

“Gotta figure out how much to tell him, first,” he lets the cat down; it's time to talk business.

 

* * *

He decides to make coffee because she looks like shit and he has a feeling it's gonna be a long night. It doesn't look like Elektra slept either of the two nights she was gone and he can't stop his mind from circling back to the fact that they're almost the same.

 

They sit at the table in silence until the kettle screams, makes note of the fact that she flinches at the sound  _ too _ .

 

He pours them each a cup. She takes hers black; he watches the cream spread out in his, doesn't stir it in case it speeds up the process.

 

“You set up a meeting,” he starts, “He'll agree to anything, he was real scared.”

 

Elektra watches him, head cocked slightly to the side, “Were you?”

 

The question makes him twist in his seat, didn't figure she'd care enough to try and read him.

 

“My money's tied up with you.”

 

It's not, not really, but he's wagering that she won't call him on it.

 

She’s picking him apart, cold eyes as sharp as a scalpel. Keeps all of her observations to herself, too.

 

“I organize a meeting. What then?”

 

He worries at the skin of his cuticles, “We can’t tell him everything, but we need him to believe us. Might think you’re in on it if you’re not careful. But he wants to save you, more than anything.”

 

He’s thinking aloud, doesn’t like to be left alone with Elektra in the quiet.

 

“I say we start with the truth. Fisk knows who he is. We don’t know how he found out. Fisk wants him disbarred.”

 

“And what of me?” She looks real torn up, really does have it bad for Red.

 

“He trusts you more than he knows, I think,” he closes his eyes, thinks of all the pieces he has from the two of them, how they fit together, “You’re in over your head, have been for the past five years.  People don’t end up working for Fisk by accident. You don’t know how you got here, don’t know who you are now. Can’t get out anymore, but you’re trying to make up for it. Tell him that. He’ll like that.”

 

Looks back up to find her gripping the mug with white knuckles. He knows her better than he thought, must’ve been some truth to it, but she better not break another one of his cups. There’s pieces of  him in it too, mixed in with Matt and Elektra. Not so much the redemption, but the confusion.

 

He needs another pack of toothpicks, his fingers are already bleeding.

 

“How angry did you make him?”

 

“Same as usual.”

 

“Will it interfere with the meeting?” Her voice is severe, words drawn out like he’s stupid.

 

He didn’t think he’d be part of it, figured he’d be out of sight, out of mind, “No, uh, don’t think so.”

 

“Good. Be here when I return.”

 

He watches her use a sai to pop the lock on one of the windows. Then, she climbs up onto the counter and slips out into the night. So that’s how she’s been getting in and out of here. It’s gotta count for something that she trusts him enough to let him see that.

 

Slides it shut behind her without latching it. It’s not too cold of a night, but his body twitches like he’s shivering anyway.

 

* * *

He kills time by washing out the mugs, leaving them to dry as he moves on to the other dishes. They don’t look dirty, but he wants to keep busy. 

 

She comes back with Red in tow and he lets them in through the front door like it’s a social call, like they aren’t gonna tell him Fisk is trying to ruin his life.

 

Elektra pushes her way into the apartment first, leaves him with Red in the doorway, leaves him wondering if Red knows about the latest cut.

 

“Come on in,” he says, might as well play house since she seems to want to.

 

“What’s this all about?” Red’s talking past him, asking Elektra.

 

He answers anyway, “We’re tryin’ to help you.”

 

“Bullseye knows what Fisk is planning.”

 

Red kind of grimaces at that, but he steps into the apartment instead of bolting.

 

“I washed the mugs already,” he says, worries at the hem of his shirt, “But I can make more coffee. I made Elektra coffee earlier, I can make it again.”

 

He’s asking without asking, all but wants to be told to just go keep himself busy. He wasn’t as ready as he thought he was, can’t get his hands to stop buzzing with restlessness.

 

“Go,” Elektra waves him away.

 

“Yeah, yeah.”

 

In the kitchen, he finds himself having to catch his breath. Elektra doesn’t know the full plan, which is to get Red in a situation where he needs them. Well, he’ll probably only need Elektra. Which is gonna be a hell of a lot easier if Red  _ does  _ get disbarred.

 

But he doesn’t have to worry about the plan now. He has to worry about the coffee. He has to worry about running damage control while Elektra talks to Red.

 

He brings the cups out when the coffee’s done, doesn’t spill a drop. Elektra’s in one of the arm chairs and he sets her cup down on the table. Red’s on the couch, as close to Elektra as he can get.

 

Bullseye sits on the other side of the couch, sets his own cup down.

 

He’s still holding Red’s coffee, leans over towards him, taps the chewed down edges of his nails against the mug, “Here.”

 

Only lets go when Red’s holding on tight. It’s a quiet moment, too quiet, makes him feel all twisted up inside.

 

“Kinda fucked that I’m makin’ you coffee after you gave me a gash on my head. Nasty one, too, bled on my shirt and the door,” he says, just to set things back to the way they usually are.

 

“I,” Red purses his lips, “I hurt you that bad?”

 

Red doesn’t have to know that he bleeds like a stuck pig no matter what, but it really sounds like he didn’t know he did that.

 

“Yeah, when you pulled me into the fuckin’ door.”

 

The pursed lips shift to a full on frown, “I didn’t mean to do that.”

 

“Doesn’t matter much, now,” he’s lying through his teeth.

 

He has to change the plan. Didn't account for the fact that Red and the Devil are different. He's not the same as Bullseye, not even close. The Devil always does exactly what he means to, but Red didn't mean to hurt him like that, so he has to make sure  _ Red _ sticks around.

 

“Fisk is tryin’ to get you disbarred. We can stall some, but he'll get wise to it if we drag it out too long,” he keeps his voice low.

 

He's a step ahead of where he should be, but Elektra cuts in to cover, “I do not know  _ how  _ he found out who you are.”

 

Red's got his mouth open slightly, at a loss for words.

 

“We should talk in the kitchen, know for a fact there aren't any bugs in there. There's a few left out here, just enough that it'll keep him happy.”


	11. crouched and trembling with hate, mixes both and dies both ways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> title is from 'hell's eight acres' by adam ant

Red moves with them to the kitchen, still hasn't said anything. Not that he blames him, it's a lot to take in.

 

“Fisk's been using Elektra,” he says, leans back against the counter, “I didn't see it at first, this isn't my forte. She isn't the one who betrayed you.”

 

Red snarls, teeth bared, “I  _ never  _ thought she did!”

 

Elektra slams her fist down on the table, gets them both to shut up.

 

“I did  _ not  _ mean for any of this to happen,” there's a kind of biting anger behind her words, “I did not  _ want  _ to become a killer, I did not  _ want  _ to be a weapon for people to use. I just wanted to make sure no one could hurt me again.”

 

If Elektra notices the way he sucks in his breath, digs his nails into his palms, she doesn't let on.

 

“I--You should've come to me, I could've helped you,” Red's voice all but cracks.

 

“No, you could not have.”

 

“We don't know what to do, but we're trying.”

 

Red whips around towards him, “And why should I trust  _ you?  _ Because Elektra says so? I've known you longer and I know what you  _ are.” _

 

“It's never been anything against you, a guy's gotta eat somehow.”

 

It's true. Fencing goods was a sporadic income, extortion was an absolute failure, he's good enough at this to get a specialist's salary.

 

Red’s still glaring, face all twisted up, so Bullseye continues, “You don't get it, Red. You don't just stop, if you could, do you really think Elektra would still be here? Fuck no, she'd be back in your bed and you'd both be doing whatever people do when they can actually go to college and get money doing something where you never have to watch someone drown in their own blood.”

 

Red falls quiet, almost contemplative. He's getting riled up, needs to reign it in a bit; Elektra's looking at him in a way that tells him to watch it.

 

“I have been doing this for five years, Matt. I am more tired than I thought was possible. I am not the same as I was when we were young, but I do not know who I am now.”

 

“Okay, okay,” Matty slumps over the table, head resting in his hands, “I'll hear you out.”

 

“We can give you a heads up, nothin’ too much so Fisk doesn't catch on. Looks more natural if you stop us, but it can't happen every time. We'll figure it out from there.”

 

“I’m just supposed to sit and  _ wait  _ and hope you don’t screw me over?” Red’s fire is back, no wonder they call him the Devil, “I’m supposed to stand by  _ knowing  _ what’s going to happen to me? To the  people who’ve done nothing more than help me?”

 

“Yes,” Elektra says, cool, even, “That is all you can do.”

 

Matty moves like he’s surrendered, gets up from the table with his head hung low.

 

“I’ll be waiting,” he says, hovering in the doorway like he’s not sure he wants to leave.

 

The silence is thick, damn near suffocating, until Red lets the door shut behind him.

 

“He’s angry.”

 

Bullseye can’t help laughing, pathetic kind of desperate sound, “No shit.”

 

He has to admit, it went better than he expected. Red seems like the stubborn type, even if Elektra’s around to try and talk him in to something. He wants to be good, can’t abide by anything else, which is why knowing this is tearing him up inside.

 

“I am going to Fisk,” Elektra says, eyes dark, teeth bared.

 

She can’t kill him yet. Red’s pissed at Fisk, but she’s going too far if she kills him now. They’ll lose Red and the paycheck.

 

“Don’t,” he says, “Not yet.”

 

“I need to  _ unwind.  _ I need another job. _ ” _

 

He knows exactly how she feels, “I’ll come, maybe even get my money finally.”

 

* * *

He doesn’t bother learning who the mark is, tunes out after Fisk promises him the cash once they’re done. It doesn’t matter, anyway; this is Elektra’s show. It’s not a real job, just some quick cash and a way to keep her under control.

 

He’s been hanging back, staying a few buildings behind her. She’s on the hunt and he doesn’t want to get in the way. But he doesn’t entirely trust her alone, especially not when she’s like this.

 

It feels like a damn wild goose chase and he’s halfway exhausted just running after her, but then she drops down off a building, right out of sight. He picks up the pace, jumps the gap between buildings until he’s standing on the roof of the last place he saw her.

 

Following her on the ground will be a pain, so he crosses his fingers and hopes she hasn’t gotten far. When he looks down over the edge, she’s gone, so he climbs down the fire escape to poke around for a while. 

 

_ She’s hunting, _ he thinks,  _ only gives up a vantage point for a reason.  _

 

So she found something-- _ someone _ \--and now she’s gonna force ‘em into a corner. Which means he needs to check the alleys, the one way roads. There aren’t many nearby, so he picks the darkest route and heads there first.

 

Doesn’t wanna get caught in the crossfire, so he moves slowly, tries to keep quiet. He’s damn lucky because the closer he gets, the more it sounds like a struggle. Not loud enough to wake the  neighbors but the sound of a fight is distinct. He sticks to the shadows, got an itching feeling that he should climb out of reach but it’s too late for that.

 

He stops, body pressed against the wall, and peers around the corner.

 

It’s really not much of a struggle at all. Barely even a fight.

 

Elektra’s folded over whoever the sorry sack of meat is, winding up to hit him again and again. He can kind of see the light catch her eyes, her teeth; makes her look wild. 

 

He steps all the way into the shadow, keeps hugging the wall. No use intervening until he knows he won’t get his teeth knocked in. He’s almost content to just watch, close enough to the action to see  that the poor sap’s barely got a face left, but then he catches sight of the lady.

 

She’s standing with her back to the wall, clutching her purse for dear life. It all clicks into place, Elektra has something in common with Red, couldn’t stand by but now she can’t stop. Forgot all about the one she was supposed to be saving.

 

He steps forward, thinks about the way Red moves, confident but disarming.

 

She lets out a little squeak, almost drops the purse but she grabs it tight again.

 

“Ma’am,” he says, keeps his voice soft, “Why don’t you just move along?”

 

She keeps one arm wrapped around the purse, points with the other shaking, “Sh-sh-she’s killing that--that guy.”

 

“Everything’s alright, we’ve got it under control.”

 

That’s the kind of thing Red would say, probably says it to the wives of murderers or the children of drug lords. Nice lies. Pretty lies.

 

“He, he, uh, he tried to--” She starts shaking even harder, looks like she’s crying; he never was good with tears.

 

“There’s a phone booth right over there, you see it?” He gestures to the one under the streetlight, “Go over there and call the police and they’ll help you out. You can tell ‘em just what happened, okay?”

 

She nods, kind of a jerky movement, biting at her lips like she’s biting back tears.

 

“Here’s a coupla quarters,” he says, pulls the very last of the money from the Cabbie from his pocket.

 

She takes it absentmindedly, starts walking over to the phone booth like a marionette. 

 

Now he’s on a time crunch. Elektra’s losing steam, at least, punches look almost half hearted. He crouches down next to her, ignores the wet wheezing coming from the sack of meat.

 

“We gotta go. You played hero and now the damsel in distress is callin’ the pigs.”

 

Elektra whips around to face him, blood on her teeth.

 

“We have to leave,” he says, more stern this time, “Right now. Get climbing or we’ll both end up in Rikers.”

 

She doesn’t argue, gets up off of the guy and heads right up the fire escape. He follows, hot on her heels. Can’t hear sirens yet, so they have a head start. He keeps running after her, really just wants to head back to the apartment but this was already a close call.

 

He can hear faint sirens, quiet enough that they’re probably safe, when he notices that she’s stopped. He jumps across, pulls himself up onto the rooftop she’s standing on. When he gets closer, he can see her trying to wipe the blood off her hands on her clothes.

 

“What the fuck was that?”

 

“I… I got carried away,” she says, hands shaking almost as bad as the lady with the purse.

 

It’s an understatement, but he’s pretty sure she knows that.

 

“You can’t do it again, you can’t. Someone saw us, could’ve gotten picked up by the pigs and they gotta go through the motions even if Fisk is payin’ them under the table, and if we’re locked up then  Matty’s on his own.”

 

She scowls, looks more angry at herself than at him.

 

“I’ll tell Fisk we lost the mark,” he says, worrying at the buttons on his jacket, “I’ll tell him we’ll get the sucker bright and early tomorrow morning. Go home, clean up, lie low. Maybe lose the hair, lose the scarf.”

 

“I am  _ not  _ cutting my hair,” Elektra snarls, hands on the sais. 

 

He puts his hands up, show of good faith, “Okay, okay, just put it up in a hat or somethin’ in case people are lookin’ for you.”

 

She nods, turns on her heels and bolts.

 

* * *

He doesn’t exactly like dealing with Fisk, but that’s easy compared to how the night’s been going.

 

He slinks back to the building, tries his best to look apologetic when he steps out of the elevator, “We didn’t get the mark. ‘Lektra’s still after him, but it’s not gettin’ done tonight. We’ll pick right back  up tomorrow.”

 

Fisk looks him up and down, lips drawn to a thin line. 

 

He’s waiting for the aftermath, the breakdown, the time to start playing damage control, but it doesn’t come.

 

“Alright,” Fisk says, “Don’t disappoint me.”

 

The suits leave him in the lobby, one tells him to wait. Comes back with a courier bag, feels about as heavy as it oughta but he doesn’t have the time to count through it all.

 

He feels just fine walking home with the money. Usually blends in with a crowd, but it’s not like anyone would be able to take it from him. It’ll be nice to hit the town tomorrow, leave Elektra to fix the mess she made while he takes it easy.

 

Things’ll be good now. 

 

He’ll be able to eat, get whatever the fuck he wants, might even pay off a banker to get him access to his old accounts again.

 

When he gets back to the apartment, he dumps all the money out on the floor of his bedroom. It’s not new, doesn’t stick together, probably isn’t sequential. It’s blood money, taken from Fisk’s operations, but now it’s his. Each stack of bills is held together by a rubber band, he counts through a bundle or two; each one comes up to ten thousand dollars.

 

The cat must’ve been hiding when everyone else was here, but now it settles into the empty courier bag. He undoes each of the rubber bands, starts separating them out into nice little piles by denomination. Fisk gave him a good mix of bills, he can skate by for a while without looking too suspicious.

 

When he’s done sorting, he starts putting the rubber bands back on. The cat brushes up against him and he puts a hand on its head.

 

“Tomorrow, we’re gonna eat like kings.”

 

He pulls the blankets out of the hope chest, throws them on the floor for the cat. Then, he starts piling up the money in there. Still keeps it separate by denomination, no use getting it all mixed together.

 

He’ll probably end up just carrying cash around, doesn’t even have a wallet anymore. It looks a lot smaller when it’s all piled up the hope chest, but it feels about right for a million and a half. It’ll keep  him afloat for a long while.

 

The cat’s claimed a few of the blankets, but the rest he refolds and puts on top of the money. Elektra’s the only person that comes around, save for Red, but he feels better when he thinks about it being hidden.

 

He’s fuckin’ tired. Hungry, too. The morning can’t come fast enough.

 

He was in his civvies, so no one's looking for  _ Bullseye. _ The same can't be said of Elektra, but no one knows who she is.

 

He strips out of the shirt and trousers, keeps the undershirt on. Needs a damn job where he can wear the suit, make everything feel right again. He's tired, all the way down to his bones. Nothing's had the chance to heal right since the hospital.

 

But he can't even sleep, just rolls around thinking about Elektra covered in blood, thinking about the sack of meat under her. Didn't even have a face when she was finished with him, just like--

 

But he thinks he'd remember the wheezing. It's a sound that'd stick with you; so he must've been dead from the get go.

 

He thinks of Elektra trying to wipe the blood away, of sitting on the floor of the shower until the water ran cold, waiting to see if he'll get up and really kill him this time.

 

When it really comes down to it, this is probably better than sleeping.

 

The cat jumps up on the bed, circles around a few times before settling in next to him. He keeps his mind on the cat, tries to clear it like when he's lining up a shot.

 

* * *

Doesn't ever make it to sleep, but at least his thoughts slow 'til it's starting to get light.

 

No stores will be open, but at least he can get something to eat.

 

After he's dressed, he folds a few twenties, a stack of tens, and a stack of fives into his jacket pockets and goes looking for the cat. Finds it yowling in the kitchen.

 

“Yeah, I'm hungry too,” he picks it up, settles it into the courier bag.

 

It only calms down when he keeps petting it. Keeps the bag undone so the cat can poke its head out, see what's going on.

 

He goes back to the diner, decides to kill time until any stores will be open. He's gonna get some nice throwing knives, get some clothes that are actually his.

 

The waitress from the first visit is there again, but she seems to relax once she notices the cat in his bag.

 

“What breed is he?” She asks, kind of cooing over it.

 

“Not sure, he's a rescue.”

 

“Oh,” she doesn’t look at him, just lets the cat lick her hand, “What’s his name?”

 

It was a stupid, spur of the moment move to tell the girl at the college that the cat’s name was Bullseye; someone’s bound to get suspicious if he keeps that up, but he hasn’t really put any thought into a name. He might be able to shrug it off as a dark sense of humor this time around, but he’ll probably have to come up with something better.

 

“His name’s--”

 

His eyes catch on one of the TV screens, thing’s on mute but the captions are on. The anchor’s going on about a brutal attack that happened the night before, potentially two suspects at large. It’s a  bad sign, makes his blood run cold. Doesn’t want to tempt fate.

 

“--Red.”

 

The waitress frowns slightly, “Well that’s a little odd, isn’t it? He’s not red at all…”

 

“Ah,” he says, drums his fingers against the table, “But here’s the punchline: I’m colorblind. Just gotta take your word for it that he’s  _ not  _ red.”

 

She gives the kind of laugh you give to duck out of a conversation and heads off with his order. He works at keeping the cat in check, can’t let it run off now, and keeps an eye on the TV. The story’s already gone, moved on to the morning weather. 

 

It’s bad, real bad, already got him on edge. He doesn’t know how much the pigs know, how much the public knows. Most people can’t point him out in a line-up, but Elektra? She’s got a very distinctive presence to her, one in a million type of gal.

 

He gets the cat its own plate of eggs, seemed to like them last time they were here. Can’t do much else other than pick at his own food now that he’s got it.

 

* * *

He pays and ducks out once he notices the traffic picking up outside. Ends up in a pawn shop, looking at the knives in the display case; mostly pocket knives, but there are a few butterfly knives too. Every one of them can probably be tied back to a crime.

 

“D’you have any throwing knives?” He leans forward, one forearm resting against the counter, eyes on the shopkeep as he drops his voice low, “Somethin’ special?”

 

“Not exactly a common request these days,” the man says, looks him over like he’s assessing him.

 

“I’m a juggler,” he says, “Lookin’ to up the ante. Come see me out in Central Park sometime.”

 

He punctuates it with a wink, has a feeling the shopkeep’s holding out on him.

 

“Let me see if we have any sets that weren’t seized as state’s evidence,” the shopkeep sighs.

 

Bullseye shifts his weight between his feet, knows damn well that it’s probably his fault. He’s never been one for throwing knives in the past, likes the feel of improvisation, but he’s had a few he’s palmed that probably turned up in a body and New York’s Finest loves a goose chase.

 

The shopkeep comes back, black case in hand, “One left. I'm not sure how special it is.”

 

Bullseye undoes the case, three rows of five resting in a velvet lined inset. They're simple, polished to a nice gleam. Nothing special on the handles, but he picks one up. It feels right in his hands, good solid weight but not too heavy to carry around.

 

He sets the blade back in its place, “I'll take it.”

 

“That set's one seventy five,” the shopkeep looks at him like that'll be a problem for him, “No negotiations.”

 

“Yeah. I said I'll take it.”

 

He reaches into the courier bag, nudges the cat back down so it won't jump out. He's a busker, right now, so it's a good thing he brought the fives along. They look worn enough to be tips.

 

He lays the bills out on the counter, stacks of 25, counting each one out aloud to really drive home his point.

 

Shopkeep kind of frowns, but he slides the case over and pockets the cash. Out on the sidewalk, Bullseye takes the cat from the bag, cradles it with one arm while he puts the case in the courier bag.

 

He decides to keep a hold on the cat, just kill some time until Elektra’s done fixing her mess. Hopefully Fisk has another job on the docket ‘cos he’d like to test out the throwing knives. Figures he should put off looking for clothes until he’s not carrying around a cat anymore, so he heads back towards his apartment.

 

He’s still in the shopping district, just passed an electronics store, when he freezes. Realizes he recognizes a voice and backtracks to the storefront. The display TVs are set to various news stations and  at least one of them is broadcasting an interview with the lady from last night.

 

“There, uh,” she kind of curls in on herself, arms wrapped around her waist, “There were two of them, the woman who… Who… Well, she had dark hair, really curly, and she was in red. The other one, he, he just talked to me, like she wasn’t killing that man. I-I think he was blond, strawberry blond. He sounded so calm.”

 

It cuts away to an anchor, professionally detached, “We’re working with the police and sketch artists to create a better profile to help in the search for these two suspects.”

 

He’s gotta find Elektra, gotta warn her. He doesn’t stick out much, the lady barely remembers what he looks like. He told her to lie low, but there’s no telling if she actually listened to him. He’ll probably end up playing mediator, too; Red won’t be happy about this, she went too far, perverted his ideals.


	12. i set out running but i take my time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter title comes from 'a friend of the devil is a friend of mine' by the grateful dead

He’s winded by the time he gets back to the apartment, not really running but he’s more panicked than he’d like to be. Realizes he doesn’t know how to get in touch with Elektra. She always just drops in, does everything on her own terms and doesn’t give anyone else a say in it.

 

He could call Red’s office, hope it’s Red and not the partner, but Elektra might gut him if he tells Red what she’s done. Not that he wouldn’t find out soon enough; Red’s a lawyer, definitely pays attention to the news. 

 

Bad things happen all the time in the city, he didn’t figure it’d be news for a while now, but it’s not every day that a woman like Elektra beats the shit out of a mugger. Only reason they didn’t write it off as the Devil was because of the eyewitness and the brutality of it.

 

Yet again, he’s reminded of why he hates her. Leaves him high and fuckin’ dry all the time, can’t even tip her off for her own benefit because  _ she  _ needs to be in control of the situation.

 

She's smart, though. Probably hasn't gone and got herself caught.

 

Even if she did, it's not like Red could even help her. So he won't call him, he'll let her figure it all out on her lonesome.

 

He can relax, knows how to lay low. He'll have to get some food first if he's gonna hole up and keep his head down, but that can wait.

 

The cat's taken to racing back and forth; exactly how he's feeling right about now. 

 

He needs something to do, needs it about as bad as he needs a smoke but he's trying to make them last. His hands are buzzing, restless.

 

Might as well test out the throwing knives while he's waiting to see if Elektra's coming back. He undoes the case, sits cross-legged on the carpet with it in front of him.

 

Plucks one out of the case and balances it on his index finger. Then he throws it, hard as he can, at the wall.

 

It lodges in the drywall with a nice, solid sound. He hit a stud. Better be careful with the wires because he's not sure he could abide by an apartment that only lights up on one side.

 

The next throw is looser, less force to it. He's aiming away from the stud and doesn't want it to go right through the damn wall. It's a hollow sound, louder but not as pleasing.

 

The neighbors must hate him but that's nothing new.

 

He throws five more following the diagonal, stud, drywall, stud, drywall. That makes seven in a straight line. Usually he goes for curves, but he's in a mood.

 

There's eight knives left. Four for either side. He starts at the space between the third and fourth blade and makes a gentle arc above and below the line. Looks passably like Elektra's sai. It'll be a message, if she gets back when he's out.

 

The cat jumps up to balance on the two blades closest to the ground, looks like it's testing how sturdy they are. He's got a feeling the studs will hold up, maybe the bare drywall too. Cat isn't that heavy.

 

It felt good, though. So good he's more than tempted to go to the kitchen and grab the rest of the cutlery.

 

He has to keep his edge, so he pulls all the knives from the knife block and carries those out to the living room. Starts on the other wall, going for circles this time. The kitchen knives require more force across the board to get them to embed. Not as much as butter knives, he knows from experience.

 

Those are next, he pulls the kitchen drawer out and brings the whole damn thing out to the living room. All the butter knives fit in his hand and he sits on the floor with his neck craned back. Throws them two at a time there's a ring stuck in the ceiling, looping around the center light. The forks are after that, he shifts until he's lying on his back, flings them up into the stucco. There's dust falling  onto him, sticking to his clothes but never getting in his eyes.

 

The cat jumps on his chest, pets it with one hand and works on getting all the forks to stick with the other.

 

He's got half a mind to see how much force spoons need when he realizes what he's doing.

 

Elektra won't count this as lucid.

 

But they've both had a hell of a week and she's one to fucking talk. At least he hasn't beaten anyone to a pulp. Worst he's done is ruin the walls and piss off the neighbors.

 

He'll get food for a week at least and if she isn't back by then, he'll go out after dark and try to find her.

 

* * *

On the walk to the nearest grocery store, he finds out two things more: the mugger is still unconscious and the eyewitness described Elektra for a sketch.

 

It's not half bad, doesn't quite capture the scope of her glare. The hair’s just right, though. Real wild, gonna be easy to recognize her if she’s not careful. 

 

It’s a good sign, though. If she was in custody, they wouldn't still be running the sketch.

 

There's bound to be a sketch of him next, but nobody ever gets them right. Doesn’t make him any less jittery, though.

 

He sticks to the aisles with the least people, but just can’t shake the feeling that he’s being watched. Spends the whole time damn near jumping out of his skin each time he thinks someone’s looking at him. He’s used to paranoia, not so much used to it being justified.

 

He gets in and out of there fast as he can, grabs whatever he thinks will last. Gets the cat some food, too. Then he slips back to the apartment, figures he'll hole up for now.

 

When he finds Elektra, he'll make damn sure he has a way to contact her from here on out.

 

* * *

He's too on edge to eat for the rest of the day, but he still feeds the cat.

 

When it's as dark as it ever gets, he puts the suit,  _ his  _ suit back on and climbs out one of the windows. He's got his fingers crossed, hoping she's stupid enough to be out tonight.

 

Doesn't even know her usual haunts, so he starts canvassing the area. Red sticks to his own territory but she doesn't seem to have any patterns. Well, he doesn't know her well enough to see any loops yet. He always circles back to the apartment, Red always circles back to Hell's Kitchen, she's untethered, just drifting.

 

The idea sets his teeth on edge.

 

He shakes his head to clear his mind and jumps to the next building over. The nights are getting colder, getting longer. Gives them more time to work.

 

He doesn't find her so much as she finds him. Knocks him flat back against a fire escape.

 

He goes limp, hopes she doesn't put him in a fucking coma.

 

Her chest is heaving and her teeth are bared but there's a hint of recognition in her eyes. She slides off him, extends a hand to help him up.

 

“You should not follow me,” she says, doesn't apologize.

 

“Everyone's looking for you. Needed to warn you.”

 

Elektra frowns, wrings her gloved hands, “There was no mark. We were chasing ghosts.”

 

There's a terrible biting feeling at the back of his mind. He knows the pieces are all in front of him but he can't fit them together. He needs perspective, needs another part.

 

“Something's  _ wrong _ .”

 

Really wrong, not the kind of wrong that happens when he can't get his mind to settle. The marks are always real. They always have been.

 

Elektra nods.

 

“We need to get inside before someone sees us. Figure this shit out.”

 

She nods again, starts moving without his signal. There's a kind of quiet unease eating at him as he moves and he keeps rolling it around in his mind. No mark. No mark. Nothing to find. Elektra in the  news, nameless sketch glaring at him.

 

“I don't know what's wrong,” he locks the window behind them, “It doesn't make sense. Bad information doesn't get that high up the chain of command.”

 

Elektra scowls, “That is the least of our problems now. What do you know?”

 

He's got nothing to worry with but the belt, “Eyewitness saw you well enough to do a sketch, the sack of meat is still unconscious, eyewitness hasn't done a sketch of me yet, no one's put a name to your face but it's only a matter of time.”

 

“Then my apartment has not been compromised,” she folds her arms, doesn't exactly look happy, “Tomorrow, I will clean out anything incriminating. You can be the lookout.”

 

She must be real on edge, never even let him know the general area of where she lives before.

 

“And what then?”

 

Her plan is barely a plan at all, seems to be a trend with her.

 

“I will stay here until further notice,” she says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world, like they don’t dislike each other on a  _ good  _ day.

 

He isn’t gonna argue, though. It’s safest to be able to keep tabs on her. No mark means Fisk won’t pay them for the latest job, though, which could be a problem. She doesn’t need to know about his money, at least, not yet.

 

* * *

Elektra takes the bedroom, doesn’t even have to ask for it. It’s only partly because of the burnt out light, that’s easy enough to fix; other part’s just not wanting an argument right now. So he stays on  the couch, staring up at the cutlery lodged into the ceiling. 

 

She hasn’t mentioned it yet, but he figures it’s just a matter of time.

 

He watches the kind of grainy darkness until it gets lighter and lighter, never quite dark enough to totally blot out the shadows of the silverware handles. It feels like he might have slept some, doesn’t feel as pulled taut as before.

 

Elektra comes out of the bedroom, dressed in one of the previous owners’ clothes. It’s not her usual style, not her usual color. He’d be hard pressed to put a name to it but he knows it’s wrong. It’s too light, sets his teeth on edge. 

 

Pants with a blouse, top three buttons left undone, belt pulled tight around her waist, hair tucked into a hat and what’s gotta be reading glasses on a chain. No lipstick, or at least not the kind she usually wears, dark like the rest of her look.

 

She looks like Elektra, but the lines are more blurred. Even covered up her beauty marks. She  _ does  _ know how to hide.

 

He’s mostly been wearing the previous owners’ clothes since he got here, hasn’t gotten around to getting anything more than the shirt and trousers Elektra picked out at the beginning of this fuckin’ fiasco. He adds a hat this time, baseball cap, feels like the right thing to do.

 

“Lead the way,” he says, straightens the cap out of habit.

 

Elektra doesn’t look too happy about showing him where she lives, but she marches right out into the hallway and over to the elevator.

 

Once the doors are shut, he drops his voice to a whisper, doesn’t look at her, “Soften your gait a little bit, you’re dressed like someone else, now you gotta move like someone else.”

 

Oddly enough, she takes his advice, shifts the way she’s walking as soon as they hit the lobby. She’s still faster than him, but it’s manageable.

 

He trails after her, all the way to the other side of town. They could get there faster if they went by rooftop, but that defeats the whole purpose of this. He’s working at memorizing the route, trying to see if he can guess which building is hers. Right now, he’s wagering on the one that’s about as big as his but sleeker, more modern. That seems to be her style.

 

Elektra leads him past an electronics shop, nicer than the one from before. He ends up caught on the tail end of a news cast; the eyewitness is looking all teary eyed again, standing with a pig on either side of her.

 

“What are you  _ doing?”  _ Elektra hisses.

 

He knows it’s time sensitive, but it’s important to get the whole picture.

 

“We, uh, we were by a street light so I couldn’t tell for sure, but, um, I think his hair was red, I know I said strawberry blond earlier but the officers have been helping me go through it all,” the eyewitness wrings her hands, “And there was something about his eyes, something, uh, something wrong. I-I can’t remember what, but there was something wrong with his eyes. Or maybe the skin  around them.”

 

“We have a sketch of the other suspect, based off this new information,” the pig looks dead serious, “When the victim wakes up, we’ll cross-check the accounts.”

 

He knows how nasty the bruises can look in the wrong light, but it doesn’t feel like that’s the case. No, it feels important, feels significant.

 

Elektra’s back beside him, nails digging into his arm without pulling him away.

 

“Wait,” he says, “I’m thinking.”

 

No mark. Mugger, half dead thanks to Elektra. Sketch for her the day of but much longer for his. Something wrong with his eyes. Skin around them. Wrong. It’s all wrong. Strawberry blond, but she changed her mind. Now she’s saying--

 

“Red. They think I’m Red.”

 

Elektra gives him a dark look, “We do not have time for this.”

 

“No, really, someone’s coaching her. She said strawberry blond first. And then she said somethin’ about the eyes was wrong.”

 

She stops, looks like she’s processing it all.

 

“They think I’m Red. They’re lookin’ for Red. We  _ gotta  _ tell him.”

 

“Calm down,” Elektra says, voice low and sharp, “And walk like nothing is wrong. If you make a scene, people will remember you.”

 

He nods mindlessly, doesn’t complain as she drags him along.

 

* * *

He was wrong about the building, way off. It’s an older place, looks like it’s mostly built up of studio apartments. It’s interesting, probably means she doesn’t like giving people hiding places. But that also means she doesn’t have any cover to speak of.

 

“Wait out here,” she says, tone serious, “Do  _ not  _ get distracted. You are the lookout.”

 

He settles back against the wall, grabs the pack of smokes from his jacket pocket. Doesn’t have that many left, but he needs to blend in right now. Nobody thinks twice about someone out for a smoke break.

 

It helps take the edge off, too.

 

He needs to collect himself, reign everything in, so he can figure this whole situation out. Seems too serendipitous for the whole thing to be a set up, but he knows Fisk has pigs on his payroll. They’re coaching the eyewitness.

 

But there’s still the problem of the mark that doesn’t exist. Maybe Fisk  _ did  _ plan for the mugger to be in that exact place, maybe he was just collateral damage. If he wakes up, he sure as hell can point the finger at Elektra.

 

Maybe Fisk knows what they’ve been up to, known all along.

 

When he gets back to the apartment, he’s gonna pull all the bugs out of the walls.

 

The smokes are helping a bit, making it so he doesn’t think everyone’s looking at him.

 

Elektra comes out of the building before he makes it through the rest of his pack. He’ll have to get a new one, maybe after things calm down.

 

She’s carrying a bag now, nice simple suitcase but it’s sleek enough to be expensive.

 

“Got everything?”

 

She nods, “There is nothing worth finding in there.”

 

* * *

They make it back to the apartment without issue. There’s too many people in the city for them to be singled out yet, but he still feels uneasy just walking down the street, keeps thinking someone’s gonna grab him, gonna point them out.

 

When they get back upstairs, she sets the suitcase down on the coffee table as he works his way down the list of remaining bugs. Pulls them out one by one and crushes them under the heel of his boot.

 

There isn’t much in Elektra’s suitcase; a few guns, significant amount of ammo for each, some throwing stars, what looks to be a grenade or two, and a couple of manila folders. The costume and her sais are back in the bedroom.

 

“We have to tell Red,” he says, been tip-toeing around it for a while now, “Can’t let him find out when the pigs come knocking on his door. Can’t call him either because someone’s gotta have the apartment phone tapped.”

 

Elektra looks at him, head cocked to the side, “Why do you think you are the important one? Fisk is going after Matt because he hates him. Fisk is going after me because it would hurt Matt. You are unimportant in this.”

 

Bullseye digs his nails into his palm. Explains why nobody came after him for ripping the bugs out, they were probably already here before he took up residence in the place. Nobody was listening to him. But it means that the apartment is a place Fisk overlooked.

 

“If I’m so  _ ‘unimportant’ _ , then we can hole up here until we figure this out. It’s not gonna take long until neither you or Matty will be able to set foot in your neighborhoods without getting picked up.”

 

“Right now, we are the only ones who know that Matt is being set up. We can find him tonight, while he’s patrolling, and tell him what we know.”

 

“Gotta be careful about that, can’t let him think we had a part in it.”

 

Elektra sounds strained, face all twisted up, “We did.”

 

“Not on purpose,” he says, but it feels half hearted, “We didn’t want this.”

 

“How  _ dare  _ you say that,” she spits, “You have spent  _ years  _ trying to kill him.”

 

“And he’s still here kickin’ around,” he shrugs, almost has to laugh, “I’m a master assassin, do you really think he’d be alive and well if I seriously wanted him dead?”

 

It’s not exactly a lie. He tried once, couldn’t pull the trigger. Just can’t figure out what he’d do without Red. So he hangs around in the highs of the lead up and always folds at the last second.

 

Elektra’s still scowling at him, “Why are you helping us?”

 

“I’m helping  _ Red.  _ You’re just in the way.”

 

“Do you think he  _ wants  _ your help? He  _ hates  _ you.”

 

He smiles, mostly to himself, “When has that ever stopped me?”

 

She clenches her fist tight, storms off to the bedroom. Hard to be upset about her taking it when it never really felt like his in the first place.

 

He’s pretty sure she’s just on edge, taking it out on him so he doesn’t see her taking it out on herself. It’s both their faults, they both got played. But Red should be safe for now.

 

He’s not gonna push it, should let her calm down a bit. She’s tough to read, but he’s good at getting a sense for when it’s dangerous to continue.

 

Red’s stubborn, but in all likelihood, he’ll listen to Elektra. And then they’ll all be so close. It’s a slim chance that this won’t boil over within a week, but it’ll be good up until then. He needs a plan, though, one that will keep Elektra and Red happy and fix everything at least a little.

 

Red’s a good guy, they could go after the pigs on Fisk’s payroll, play mostly by Red’s rules. Get in Matty’s good graces, let him and Elektra take the edge off a bit. They’re out of a job now, all three of them, but Elektra’s bound to have money somewhere and he’s got the emergency fund in the hope chest. 

 

Or they could just leave, take the money and run. He and Elektra can pick up gigs internationally and nobody’ll be breathing down their neck. Fisk gets what he wants if they’ve been run out of town. No need to hunt them down overseas.

 

Either way, it’ll be good.


	13. up jumped the devil and off we crept

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> title comes from 'up jumped the devil' by nick cave and the bad seeds. the whole verse fits really well:
> 
> Who's that milling round the courthouse steps?  
> Nailing my face to the hitching fence  
> Who's that milling round the courthouse steps?  
> Up jumped the Devil and off we crept

They head out after dark. Got a pretty good idea of where Red will be; it seems like he spends most nights patrolling.

 

Nobody’s come right out and said it’s Red, though, and that’s what bothers him most. Get the masses worked up into a frenzy and then they’ll believe anything. That’s what Fisk has to be betting on.

 

“We’re gonna have to tell him what you did,” Bullseye says, half hopes the wind just throws the words right back at him.

 

She’s ignoring that. They both are.

 

He doesn’t want to tell him that people think he’s Red anymore than she wants to tell him that she almost killed someone. And she doesn’t even have the saving grace of it being quick or painless.

 

It feels like he should’ve seen this coming, but he didn’t. It’s gnawing at him, terrible sense that he’s missed out on something important. He’s been underestimating Fisk or getting too comfortable or letting his guard down. But it lines up alright: get Elektra and Matt close to each other, use him as a patsy, let Matt take the fall. They’re about the same height, same build, just a few details that can easily get lost in translation.

 

He spots Red first, perched on the side of a building, blends right in with the damn gargoyles. Drops down onto the rooftop, doesn’t bother being quiet about it. It’s a courtesy, lets Red know he’s there. They’ve met like this a thousand times over, but somehow this is the only time his heart’s been in his throat.

 

“We gotta talk,” he says.

 

Red doesn’t look back.

 

“Elektra--”

 

“ _ I know,”  _ Red spits through gritted teeth.

 

“Fucker deserved it, though. She was doin’ the same thing as you.”

 

He can make out the slump of Red’s shoulders relaxing, shoots a quick look behind him to check and see if Elektra’s still there. She’s gone, nowhere to be seen; probably knows she’s the last person Red wants to talk to. It’s a funny situation, like they’ve switched places.

 

“That’s not the problem, though,” he steels himself for the next part, “Didn’t want the night to go from attempted murder to double homicide so I let an eyewitness go.”

 

Truth is, he mostly didn’t want to do it for free. Didn’t figure anyone would think twice about an assault in New Fuckin’ York.

 

“Good for you,” Red snarls, “Finally doing something decent for once.”

 

“She can pick out Elektra in a line up, but you knew that already. The thing is, she saw me, too. Now, I’ve heard the news, heard all the ways she’s described me, I know she’s way off the mark. But here’s the problem: all the things she’s saying about  _ me  _ are things that fit  _ you _ .”

 

Red turns back to him, kind of quiet rage in his posture, “Eyewitnesses are unreliable at best.”

 

“I  _ know  _ that,” he rolls his eyes, “But think of it like this: Elektra’s back in town, and everyone saw you two swapping spit back at that party,  _ and  _ both of you’ve been burnt by New York’s Finest. She’s been off the grid for five years and I know for a  _ fact  _ that people can say she’s certifiably crazy. So it’s easy, she snapped and now you’re an accessory to murder. Pigs are lookin’ for a guy your height,  your build, red or strawberry blond hair, fucked up eyes.”

 

He could almost choke on the damn silence as Red just stands there. Probably running through it all in his head, but his fists are clenched and Bullseye’s fairly certain he’s gonna get decked.

 

“You gotta get outta here now, Matt. Elektra, too.”

 

Red sighs, looks like his whole body unwinds, looks like defeat.

 

“She’s in my apartment, couldn’t risk going back to her own,” he’s wagering on her still being there when they get back, “At least let us talk this through. We  _ know  _ Fisk.”

 

“Not well enough to see this coming.”

 

“Yeah,” he sighs, “Apparently not.”

 

And Fisk sure seems to know  _ him,  _ which has his stomach all twisted up in knots, but Red doesn’t have to know that.

 

* * *

Red follows him back anyway, always does when it’s about Elektra. Doesn’t say anything the whole way there, doesn’t say anything when they find her still in his apartment.

 

Quiet makes him antsy and he shifts his weight from foot to foot, “I didn’t want this, y’know.”

 

They’re all in costume, standing in the kitchen, pointedly looking at anything but each other. He has a feeling it was always going to end up like this, just didn’t want to admit it.

 

“You both think I did, but I didn’t. Things were good the way they were.”

 

Red breaks first, pulls off the mask and holds it tight between his fingers like it’s the only thing keeping him together. There’s a shine in his eyes, like he’s toeing the line between crying and screaming.

 

He pulls his mask off next. Maybe they are the same, not just looks but something more. Motherless child, murdered father, something broken. They’re two halves, mirrored images. 

 

_ Just gotta take your word for it that he’s  _ not  _ Red. _

 

But Matty doesn’t have it in him to kill. Maybe  _ he  _ got all of that. Matt can just be Matt and he can just be Bullseye and then they’ll both be whole. Perfectly balanced, so they don’t keep spinning out.

 

They’ll need Elektra, too. He can’t pin down who’s at the center, but he knows she’s important.

 

“I have money,” he says, “Enough to get you two to Greece or fuckin’ wherever. But you have to take me with you.”

 

Red tenses, wrinkles his nose, “This is my  _ home.  _ I won’t let anyone scare me into hiding.”

 

“You’re fuckin’ stupid, Red.”

 

“ _ Enough _ ,” Elektra slams her fist down on the counter, makes them both jump.

 

“This is a matter of pride,” she continues, “I will not let this happen without consequence.”

 

She’s always been planning to kill Fisk and Red won’t leave without her. He’d prefer to run, but neither of them will. Not ‘til it’s finished.

 

“I know all the pigs on Fisk’s payroll,” he offers, “Odds are they had a hand in all of this. So we send a message, make Fisk squirm. Let him know we figured him out.”

 

Red frowns, lips pursed, “No killing.”

 

Elektra flicks her eyes over to him, it’s a warning.

 

He looks back at her, over to Red, and he grins, “Deal.”

 

* * *

Red settles into the couch, Elektra in one of the arm chairs, himself on the floor. He doesn’t remember names for most of them, nicknames stick easier in his mind, but he’s jotting down descriptions for future reference before they start to plan.

 

There are a few of them who always have the same schedules, might even be one or two that work Hell’s Kitchen on the regular. Those would be the place to start, make it clear that Daredevil’s had it with dirty cops.

 

“Since when do you have a cat?”

 

He looks up, sees it sitting next to Red, front paws up on his leg.

 

“The cat is feral,” Elektra scowls, “He found it somewhere and decided to keep it.”

 

“Leave the cat alone and let me think, would’ya?”

 

He lays the papers out on the coffee table, twirls the pen between his fingers.

 

“I say we start in Hell’s Kitchen. It’s personal, we gotta make that clear. There’s at least one who’s there every night, probably posted to keep tabs on you, Red. Real stocky, doesn’t look mean but feels like the kinda guy who’s family’s probably glad he works nights.”

 

Red stops in his tracks, hand held in place but the cat’s already moved on, “That’s quite a specific description.”

 

“But you know the type, don’tcha?”

 

The cold silence is an answer enough. Tells him just what he needs to know.

 

“So we find this man and do what, exactly?” Elektra looks the sai over carefully, sets back to cleaning it.

 

“He’s our message, to Fisk, to the city. Can’t kill him because then he’s a martyr, but we can make sure he knows damn well how he got in this situation.”

 

Red doesn’t look thrilled, but he nods ever so slightly.

 

“You two are backup. Backup  _ only, _ ” Red says.

 

Elektra kind of frowns, worries at her lip with her teeth. She still isn’t wearing lipstick and he can see the cut she’s just making worse. She knows Red doesn’t trust her to stay calm; it’s gotta be tearing her up inside.

 

“Alright,” he rolls his eyes, makes a show out of sighing, “Not like it’d do to have my name tied to a message like that.”

 

* * *

They find the pig just where Bullseye knew he’d be. Keeps on his tail until he’s somewhere secluded. Red drops down to the sidewalk, leaves the two of them up there to watch.

 

“He will not be able to do what we need,” Elektra says, voice quiet like he could hear them over the sounds of the city, “He is a good man. He assumes everyone is either good or bad, but it is far more complex than that.”

 

Same read he’s gotten off Red so far. Black and white world, pendulum between the two extremes.

 

Red’s angry, though. The pig’s already down on his knees, trying to stop choking for air. He only catches bits and pieces of what’s being said, mostly things about responsibility and trust and integrity.

 

And then Red just leaves him there. Climbs back up to the spot they’ve been waiting at. He’s kind of shaking, but not really, it’s more of being animated by energy.

 

“I’ve never hurt a police officer before,” he says, keeps on worrying with his billy clubs.

 

“Well, there’s a first time for everything, Red.”

 

Elektra moves up to Red, puts a hand on his cheek, fingers on the mask and thumb against his skin. He holds onto her arm with both hands, not quite squeezing, just looking for something to keep him from jittering out of his skin.

 

“Matt…  _ Matt…  _ You must calm down,” her hands slide down to his hips, steadying him, “You must breathe. He was a corrupt man, you are doing what is right, what is needed.”

 

Red nods along, jerky and disjointed but he seems to be slowing down a bit. Elektra folds one arm behind her back, something held tight in her fist. He’s got the idea; slides up behind her as quiet as he can.

 

She’s still talking to Red, still gently stroking the small of his back, as Bullseye takes the item from her hand. It’s small, solid. In the grainy glow of the streetlamps, he can see that it’s the pig’s badge. Red must’ve taken it; he’s always been one for symbolism. He slips away, down the fire escape.

 

The pig’s standing again, but he’s still wheezing, didn’t have the sense to run when he had the chance. No way will he be able to make any kind of a shot when he’s like this, but he still trains his gun on Bullseye. Gives the pig a sense of security, he figures.

 

“ _ You,”  _ the pig spits.

 

“Yeah, me.”

 

He flips the badge between his fingers, makes sure the pig can see it.

 

“Forget what side you’re on, you psychotic fuckin’ idiot?”

 

“Nah,” Bullseye says, leans back against the wall, “Got a new gig. You see, the Devil and me? We both got our reasons to hate Fisk. So we’re on a cease fire. Fightin’ a common enemy and all that. And we figure we can hit him where it hurts. Now, I personally think all of you pigs are dirty, but you’re one of the ones which I know for a  _ fact  _ is in Fisk’s pocket, so the Devil thought he’d send a nice  message to Mister Fisk.”

 

The pig throws his head back, laughs, “Now I heard you were crazy, but I never thought you were stupid.”

 

He grits his teeth, keeps flipping the badge like there’s nothing wrong in the world. Red said he couldn’t kill, but there’s a lot that can happen before someone’s dead. The badge has blunt edges, but that just means he needs more force, needs the right kinda spin.

 

Catches it between his thumb and forefinger and throws it nice and easy. 

 

The pig’s arm goes limp, leaves him holding the gun with one hand. 

 

Provided he aimed right, and he always does, it should’ve shattered the clavicle and cut a ligament or two. Probably won’t ever heal right, since the badge was blunt. Did a lot of damage.

 

He can’t make out the blood, but he can see the agony on the pig’s face. Still holding it together, kind of keening and panting but most people scream when he pulls a trick like that. The pig drops the gun, hand reaching for his busted shoulder like he needs to make sure the arm is still there.

 

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he smirks, flashes the gap in his teeth, “Don’t wanna get bone shards in your muscle tissue.”

 

Pig’s kinda moving his mouth like he’s trying to talk, but all that comes out is that same annoying whining. 

 

“Stay with me, now, don’t go catatonic yet. You haven’t even gotten our message. It’s an easy one, don’t worry. Tell Fisk we’re cleaning house. Consider this my letter of resignation.”

 

That’s all he came for, all he needed to do. Leaves the pig behind and hurries back up to the rooftop. Red’ll catch on eventually, but right now this part’s a secret. He wasn’t gone long and Elektra’s kept Red busy; they’re pressed against each other, Elektra kissing her way up his jaw. 

 

“You gonna stay here all night?” he crosses his arms, stands like he’s been there all along.

 

He gets a kind of satisfaction from ruining the moment like that. Elektra shoots a glare over her shoulder like she wants him dead and Red steps back from her, gets all bashful. But they need him, as long as he’s got the list.

 

“Don’t wanna be hangin’ around when the pig calls for backup,” he shrugs, plays coy, but he knows he’s right.

 

* * *

Things are tense back at the apartment. They’re all holding it together alright, but it’s not easy. There’s another fight brewing, heavy in the air. 

 

He hasn’t slept much the past few days, keeps slipping in and out of awareness, but Elektra’s trying to get Red to stay.

 

“They haven’t named me as a suspect,” Red’s voice is low, but you can tell he’s kind of pleading, “I want to go home, I want to leave on  _ my terms.” _

 

“ _ Fine. _ ”

 

She’s angry, but even if he does end up in custody, they’ll get him back. Red must’ve slipped out somewhere along the way because he’s nowhere to be seen when Elektra slams the door to the bedroom. 

 

So he gets up, closes the curtains, shuts off the lights. Feels like he’s in a fucking trance. 

 

Hovers around for a minute like he doesn’t know what he should be doing.

 

He ends up on the couch somewhere along the way. But the shadows are catching just right and he can see something sitting in the armchair until he looks right at it and he can’t stop thinking about that fucking wheezing sound the sack of meat made.

 

He hopes, fucking  _ prays,  _ he’d remember the wheezing.

 

Someone found the body, he’s got the article. But it might not be the right body, might not be the right town, might not even be the right fucking year. Truth is, the only facts he’s got are the ones he’s convinced himself are true.

 

And the sack of meat didn’t have a face, and he kept fucking wheezing, but he’s still kicking.

 

He gets up, figures he’ll turn on the portable radio. Flips through static for anything to try and fill the space. And he’s already up and nobody’s said anything yet but he oughta be careful so he stands on the coffee table and starts pulling the cutlery out of the stucco. The forks won’t leave as obvious holes as the knives, but most people can’t tell with stucco anyway.

 

It’s too early for the radio to be playing anything worth listening to, but it fills the space.

 

He’s still balancing on the coffee table, feeling for the handles of the knives. He’ll get the ones out of the walls next, set everything back to normal before Elektra wakes up. He can’t set everything back to the way it was, but he can do this.

 

After he’s done on the coffee table, he lays out the cutlery and starts on pulling the kitchen knives out of the walls. It’s not exactly a quiet process since these ones went deeper into the drywall, doubly so with the ones embedded in the studs.

 

By the time he moves on to the throwing knives, it’s already light enough that he can see where the handles are. The music’s getting more familiar and he’s catching bits and pieces of a morning talk show. The throwing knives don’t end up on the coffee table with everything else; he takes the time to put them back in the case.

 

He’s already wasted the majority of the night, so he gets the cat some food, lays the bowl out in the kitchen and the damn thing comes running like its life depends on it. He gathers up the cutlery, figures if Elektra’s gonna hole up here, she’ll probably want to eat. Goes back for the radio before starting to wash it all.

 

There’s plaster dust all over all the silverware, on his arms, probably in his hair. He knows how to clean, knows how to do it real good. Washes them one at a time and makes sure they shine before he sets them aside.

 

He’s always listening, but actually  _ hearing  _ keeps fading in and out between the water and the cat and the radio. Just bits and pieces, like everything else. He’s gotta sleep before he slips up.

 

Picks up the tail end of the morning talk show, blurring into the nine o’clock news.

 

“--suspect has been identified as Elektra Natchios, known associates include Matthew Murdock who may match the--”

 

Everything’s fucked. Didn’t account for how easy it’d be to link Red to Handsome.

 

He drops the knives in the sink, leaves the water running. Decides he doesn’t care if the personal line’s tapped. He’s never used the phone here before, but the line’s gotta be connected. Everything else is; lights, gas, heat, the works.

 

His hands are kind of shaking, so he tucks the receiver into the crook of his neck as he dials. Doesn’t even need the operator, he already knows where to call. It’s an easy number, one that just makes sense.

 

It’s some time around nine o’clock, and he hopes someone will actually pick up. He leans against the wall, tries to not get lost in the dial tone as it drones on and on and on.

 

“Thank you for calling the law offices of Nelson and Murdock, how can I help you?”

 

It’s the partner, Bullseye knows his voice well enough. Sounds tired, doesn’t sound like there’s anybody else there but he sure took a while to pick up.

 

“Hello?”

 

He twirls the cord around his finger, “Tell Red it’s time to run.”

 

“What… What does that mean? Wait. Wait, I  _ know  _ you, you’re--”

 

He hangs up, doesn’t know why he stayed on for so long.

 

And then he’s back on the couch, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. He has to fix this clusterfuck; Red and Elektra just can’t cut it when it comes to shit like this. Red’s stupid and won’t run so they’re all just stuck here. He’s dealt with Fisk the longest, he should know what they need to do, but he doesn’t.

 

He’s missing something. Well, he’s missing a lot of things. And it’s always the important ones, always the final piece of the puzzle. The kicker is, he was doing better but now that’s all gone out the window.

 

It’s better without the shadows, better with the radio playing. Makes it almost possible to relax, which is what he really needs to do.

 

He needs a clear head, clear thoughts. Can’t deal with the headaches and getting distracted. He needs to be lucid, like Elektra said.

 

_ Lucid and capable. _

 

He remembers the exact way she said it, the look in her eyes.

 

_ Lucid and capable. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, some quick notes: they're all about 24 and the major events of 1972 (matt's accident, bullseye killing his dad, elektra going into the psych ward) all happened when they were 14 which puts this at a solid decade after the first life changing events. don't worry about it too much, it's just me getting all pepe-silvia.png behind the scenes


	14. seen the lights go out on broadway, empire state laid low

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> title is from 'miami 2017' by billy joel

Someone’s got him by the arm and he kicks out hard as he can before it all even sinks in. Eyes half open, everything kind of blurry.

 

It doesn’t do much for him, only gets him a forearm digging into his throat. Pins him back against the couch. Blocks his airways and his vision blacks out.

 

He’s kind of gasping and clawing at the person when he realizes he must’ve been asleep.

 

Half awake, half aware, caught off guard. The apartment isn't as safe as he thought. He can’t think, can’t get his hands on anything. Can’t get the world to focus. 

 

His eyes can’t seem to catch on anything for more than a few seconds. Keeps drifting back to the glasses, reflecting back a picture of him struggling. Nice and round.

 

Means it’s only Red, so he stops fighting. Lets his body go slack. Just focuses on trying to breathe.

 

“You think you can just call my  _ work?”  _ Red presses harder, “You can just make yourself a part of my  _ life?” _

 

He can’t exactly talk currently, but Red probably doesn’t want an answer. Better to just ride it out.

 

“Do you know how  _ hard  _ it is to keep my life separate from this mess?”

 

Red got the message, which is a start. But he’s too worked up, can’t even tell him what the situation is. Elektra can calm Matty down, always does without fail, but she doesn’t even know what’s happening and she isn’t too keen on helping Bullseye out.

 

But he knows what Elektra does. Might just make things worse, but he knows exactly how she moves. So he puts a hand on Red’s arm, just above his elbow and smooths it all the way up to his shoulder. Looks like Elektra presses hard, but she probably doesn’t leave bruises, so he presses his palm against Red’s shoulder, moves his thumb across the fabric of his shirt.

 

He doesn’t know what does it for Red, but it works, makes him loosen enough that it’s easy to breathe again.

 

“Stop chokin’ me,” he says, takes a second to breathe, deep and ragged, “ _ Please.” _

 

Red pulls away like he’s been burnt. Bullseye folds his hands, rests them in his lap. He only realizes that Red was kneeling on the floor in front of him after he’s standing up again.

 

“You can’t do that,” all the fight’s gone out of Red’s voice, “There has to be a  _ line.” _

 

But there isn’t a line, not anymore. Except he hasn’t told Red that yet.

 

“The line doesn’t matter, Red. Matt Murdock’s a wanted man.”

 

Red’s hands clench to fists and he paces the length of the room, “You said there would be  _ time _ before anyone was onto me.”

 

“I was wrong, okay. Once they ID’d Elektra, it was easier to make the jump to you than I thought. They named her on the radio this morning. That’s why I called.”

 

“We need to act fast,” Red stops, looks like the Devil even in his civvies, “We need a better message, one that Fisk will  _ actually  _ get.”

 

“Oh, he got our message, Red,” Bullseye leans back against the couch, arms stretched out, “He got our message just fine. You just don’t like his response.”

 

“Do you think this is a  _ game?” _

 

“Yeah, and it’s our turn.”

 

“He’s taking  _ everything  _ from me! I can’t go back to my house, I can’t go back to my job, I can’t be Matthew Murdock anymore!”

 

Bullseye drops his voice low, tries to soften it up, “But he can’t touch the Devil, can’t even get close. That’s why he went after  _ Matt _ .”

 

“He doesn't get to do this, I won't  _ let _ him.”

 

“That's not gonna be easy or clean, Matty.”

 

Red sighs, folds in on himself, probably knows that already. It's the reason he hasn't ditched Bullseye yet, doesn't have the guts for the hard part, doesn’t want Handsome to get any more blood on her hands.

 

“Fisk wants the Devil to come out and play, so let's give him  _ exactly _ what he wants.”

 

He just hopes there'll still be something left of Matty after all this. He likes the Devil just fine but there's something about Matty that he just can't let go of.

 

* * *

The plan is simple, take out as many of Fisk's pigs without making any of them a martyr. Split up for maximum impact, maximum coverage, make it clear that this is the Devil's mandate. Fisk can’t do much at all if his whole damn house of cards collapses.

 

“If we gain traction,” Bullseye drums his fingers against the table, “We can get help. If people get word that Bullseye and Elektra are on ceasefire with the Devil, it tells anyone fed up with the way Fisk is running the show that the Devil will let things slide until the city's cleaned up.”

 

Red's face drops, eyes dark, lips pulled back in a snarl. Looks like he never even thought about it that way. But it's what he's doing, looking the other way for a means to an end.

 

“We will need any help we can get,” Elektra's already snaking her hands around his waist; he knew there was something familiar about it, her hands move like she's polishing the sais when she's trying to calm Red down.

 

“Fisk doesn't have much going for him other than money. Very few real loyalties. They call him the Kingpin for a reason, he's got his fingers in everything and it's not easy to find another employer in New York. Consider yourself a trustbuster, Red. Doing the world a goddamn favor.”

 

“Alright,” Red doesn't sound thrilled, but it's all he needs.

 

He puts Fisk's building in the center of the circle and divides it up into three rings. It's a calling card, if you know how to look for it. Gives himself the piece with the Bar With No Name, figures he can drum up some support there. Then, he gives Elektra and Red the run down of their sections, the routes of the dirty pigs, the basic descriptions.

 

There's still a few hours of sunlight left after he's done, leaves them with time to kill. Red's rolling his rosary between his fingers, head bowed, hushed prayers under his breath. It's good, means Matty is still in there somewhere. It fills the space as he goes through the apartment, looking for things to squirrel away in the pockets of the suit. Nothing that can kill, but anything that pins it on Bullseye.

 

“You are aware that you are starting a war, right?”

 

Elektra slides the sais into the thigh holsters, ties the scarf tight around her head. She  _ looks  _ like she's ready for a battle.

 

“Can't work for Fisk anymore, nobody else wants me now that they know I'm crazy, so I figure I'm technically working for you two as of late. Fisk's the first mark and I'm a fucking specialist.”

 

Truth is, it's personal. Fisk's been thinking he's nice and tame for too long. He got used to all of it. The apartments, the hospital stays, the bail money, the direction. He got lost in it. Made him get soft, get stupid.

 

It'll feel good to tear the whole thing down.

 

* * *

They suit up and head out at dusk. Linger on the rooftop a second to go back over the plan and then Elektra pulls Red in close. Bullseye doesn't move on until they break off, going their separate ways.

 

It's not part of the plan, but he's hitting the Bar With No Name first off.

 

Doesn’t make a big show of it, just slips in and gets himself a drink. He hasn’t been back in a long time, couldn’t get away without getting at least one drink even though he’s on the clock. He nurses it,  leans against the bar and scans the crowd. A little early for too much traffic, but it’s better that way.

 

Turk’s sitting alone and he slides into the empty side of the booth. Leans across the table, toothpick caught between his teeth.

 

“Now, don’t tell anyone you heard it from me, but the Devil’s declared open season on any of the pigs workin’ for Mister Fisk. No questions asked of anyone who pitches in, offer’s startin’ tonight, limited time only.”

 

Turk glares over his drink, searching him for some kind of tell, “You sure you’re all good up there, Bullseye? Because it sounds like you’re tryin’ to get us all killed.”

 

“It’s the real deal, Turk. Me and the Devil got the plant over in Hell’s Kitchen, got him real good. Probably won’t work again.”

 

He must’ve lost his touch, usually he’s much better at convincing people but Turk’s just looking at him with a pathetic kinda concern.

 

“Don’t believe me? Watch this,” he stands up, puts his hands on his hips, “Now who here heard about what happened in Hell’s Kitchen last night?”

 

“You fucked up one of Fisk’s cops,” someone offers.

 

“Yeah,  _ and _ ?”

 

“And said you were workin’ for Daredevil.”

 

“Uh-huh,” he nods, thinks this might’ve been a bad idea, “And before that?”

 

“Daredevil got him first,” Shocker speaks up, “I was in the middle of a smash and grab but Daredevil went right past me. And that’s not  _ normal _ so I tailed him. I saw it.”

 

“Good,” Bullseye smiles to himself, finally got the right answer, “Now the Devil’s offered us all a deal. Any of the pigs on Fisk’s payroll are free game. Only rules are no killing and get the message out:  Daredevil’s had it with the Kingpin. Spread the word.”

 

He knocks the drink back and hits the road, leaves behind a kind of stunned silence. Most of them probably don’t believe him, even after he got his story backed up. But everyone in that bar likes a fight no matter the reason, so who knows how it’ll shake out. It doesn’t matter. He’s got a job to do, already enough wasted time.

 

He knows most of the patrol paths, learned them all one weekend a couple years back. Most of them he knows through the system, met a good handful whenever he’d get picked up in his civvies. Book him under a fake name and let him slip out the back during the commotion of the night. Hasn’t happened since he broke out, which might have something to do with the tumor being removed. Most of  the bad nights were spent in the drunk tank because someone figured he was fucked up on one thing or another.

 

Those pigs were always the worst. Always talked down to him, always acted like he was incompetent. Woulda rather spent the night in a jail cell. He hopes he’ll run into one of them, but really any of Fisk’s pigs will do.

 

He hasn’t had much luck finding any yet, but a couple patrol cars come by, lights, sirens, the whole nine yards. Makes all the people in the sidewalk crane their necks, gawking. But it’s a good sign, means Elektra’s already raising Cain in her ring. He’s gotta pick up the pace before all the fun’s over.

 

If it wasn't a pressing matter, he'd have to laugh. Bullseye's walking down the middle of the fucking street in his suit and not a single person's batting an eye. All the pigs are too preoccupied to even  stop him.

 

He finally runs into one of them, right on the cusp of Elektra's ring, probably going after her. Sticks his fingers in his mouth and wolf whistles loud as he can. The pig turns back, hand creeping down to his holster.

 

“It's been a long time, hasn’t it?”

 

He's a smart one, stops reaching for the gun. But he steps forwards like he's about to bolt so Bullseye catches him in the knee with a rock. There's a perfect little crunch and the pig folds to the sidewalk, whimper stuck in the back of his throat.

 

“Don't run out on me yet, things are just getting  _ fun,”  _ he grins; scary is a mask that fits him like a second skin, but if he was doing this for anyone other than Red, he'd charge extra for the routine.

 

The pig manages to get his hands on his radio, and Bullseye watches him fumble with the buttons. It's a show and he's gonna make it a damn good one.

 

“Requesting back-up, I repeat, requesting back-up,” his voice is kind of thready, “Bullseye, Bullseye's in the mix.”

 

He's glad he pocketed the toothpicks. They're a bitch to pull out. He puts one, another, and a final one for good measure in the back of the pig's hand, still clutching the radio in a death grip.

 

“God, fuck, I think he's gonna kill me.”

 

“No one dies tonight,” he says, nice and even, “Devil's orders. But you might wish you were dead.”

 

It's one of Fisk's boys, alright, but he doesn't remember if he knows this one. He thinks he does, kind of remembers the self assured look that lasted all of ten seconds but they all look about the same.

 

“Why are--” the pig swallows hard, “--are you doing this?”

 

Figures he can keep him distracted, maybe even guilt him, but Bullseye can talk  _ and  _ work just fine, “I'm fed up.”

 

He punctuates it with another toothpick, working his way up the pig's arm. Fucker deserves some credit, keeps wincing but he's holding it together.

 

“First off, Fisk thinks he can  _ replace me” _

 

Adds two more in the forearm.

 

“Then he says either let her manage  _ my _ fucking money or  _ starve _ .”

 

Takes four to the bicep before he drops the radio.

 

“And then he fucks me over. And everyone else workin’ for him is in on the joke.”

 

Can't go for the neck, some of his anger might slip into the throw. So he puts a few in the cheek, almost looks like a smile.

 

“You're all so smug. Know my fate's in your perfect fucking hands every time I slip up. Bet you're all laughing behind my back, master assassin but he's fucking crazy so beat cops stick him in the drunk tank when he's off the clock.”

 

“Nobody's laughing at you,” it's barely a whisper, he doesn't want to jostle the toothpicks, “Nobody's got a death wish.”

 

“SHUT UP,” Bullseye kicks up a spray of gravel, and the man's hand comes up to block it, “Stop  _ lying  _ to me. Everyone's always lying, always saying they don't notice jack shit.”

 

He doesn't remember moving, but he's right close to the man's face, kind of snarling as he speaks.

 

“But that's good for you, isn't it? How you keep getting away with it? No one says nothin’ and we all gotta act like everything is peachy fuckin’ keen!”

 

He's got the gun in his hands. Knew right where to get it.

 

“I'm fuckin’ tired. I'm  _ done.” _

 

Got it right against his forehead.

 

But he's not supposed to be awake. Not supposed to be squirming around.

 

“ _ Bullseye!” _

 

Elektra's not supposed to be here either. 

 

He turns back, tries to blink the world into focus. 

 

She's kind of pulling at him, “I have been keeping his 'back-up’ from shooting you for five minutes. Get up. We are  _ leaving.” _

 

He hits the pig with the butt of the gun, jaw snaps back. Does it a second time for good measure.

 

Then he lets her pull him up, takes a second to get running

 

_ Lucid and capable. Lucid and fucking capable. _

 

He got lost, plain and simple. Still fucking is. Doesn’t know where he is or how he’s still going, but he’s kind of aware of Elektra, dragging him sometimes, yelling at him to keep moving.

 

It’s all broad picture, fill in the blanks. He’s in New York, but why?

 

Because he kills. Sometimes for money, sometimes because--

 

He isn’t moving anymore. Takes longer than it oughta to sink in that Elektra’s stopped him.

 

“--you chose it.”

 

He missed something, probably left it a few thoughts back, “Chose what?”

 

“The rendezvous point,” Elektra glares daggers, no, sais, at him, arms crossed.

 

Rendezvous point. Rendezvous point. He’s reaching for the specifics, shouldn’t be missing this much.

 

“Ah, fuck,” he digs the heel of his palms into his eyes, “The plan.”

 

“I did my part. It remains to be seen if you did yours.”

 

He doesn’t think he did. He remembers the bar and knocking back his drink and walking down the street and the way the gun felt in his hands and how he almost dropped it the first couple of times, couldn’t get his nerves to settle.

 

Wait. That doesn’t belong there. That’s not where it goes.

 

“Think I’m still lost,” he mutters, mostly to himself.

 

Elektra turns back, looks right at him, “What?”

 

“Nothin’.”

 

She looks back to the skyline, “Matt should be here soon. We agreed on the set time.”

 

Matt. Matty. Red. That’s right, he’s working for Red now. That’s how this all started, isn’t it? Red saved him and now they’re here. He’s missing a few steps, he knows that for sure. Maybe he’ll ask Red when he shows up.

 

But he doesn’t want to worry about that right now. He wants to figure out whatever the hell it is that Elektra’s looking at, so he heads for a better vantage point. Can’t see the skyline too well from where he’s standing.

 

Her arm shoots out in a flash, connects with his chest, and he kind of blinks a few times, like he’s still waking up.

 

“Matt would not be pleased if I let you walk off a building,” she says, voice icy cool.

 

“I’d stick the landing.”

 

“Not from forty stories up. You would stick nothing. You would be dead.”

 

He looks down to the sidewalk. She’s probably right, but he’s pretty indestructible. And then his eyes kind of drift back up to the rest of the city. The whole thing’s lit up like fuckin’ Christmas, but there’s not much of anybody milling around. Probably all inside because--

 

Because--

 

_ You are aware that you are starting a war, right?  _

 

(It’s not Elektra, but it is. The Elektra next to him stands silent, arms crossed.)

 

That’s right. He was starting a war.

 

He’s better off now, actually notices when Red falls into place next to him. It doesn’t feel like the right time to ask why he’s starting a war, so he stays quiet, keeps an eye on the few people on the  street.

 

“There wasn’t much to do in my sector.”

 

“Elektra drew most of the attention,” he remembers that much, at least.

 

“And you,  _ both  _ of you, didn’t kill anyone?”

 

“No. I had to prevent him from doing as such.”

 

It’s not as simple as that, but she doesn’t have to know the full scope of the situation. It shuts Red up, though, and he faces the city again, leaning forward like he’s searching for something. Bullseye knows the feeling better than he’d like to. He’s always fucking searching, never knows what he’s looking for.

 

He doesn’t know why they’re still here instead of getting the hell out of dodge, either. They oughta be going into hiding as fast as they can, need to plan another move. Instead, they’re all just stuck on the rooftop. The city doesn’t look like it’s burning, but he thinks this might be bad.

 

“There aren’t any sirens,” Matt says, “I can’t hear any at  _ all _ .”

 

He’s right. There aren’t even any ambulance sirens. The city’s on lockdown, probably, and the bar clicks right into place. He told everyone, told them to spread the word. The rest of the city’s afraid to try and help, might get caught in the crossfire.

 

Or maybe they agree with the message.

 

“Fisk has other people on retainer,” he’s talking without really thinking, “Nothin’ like me, but they’ll kill us dead either way. Kill us real good if they catch us. Some of them are trackers, I think.”

 

It’s too damn quiet. Makes his head ache.

 

One of them should say something, shouldn’t just leave him hanging like this.

 

“We shoulda gone to Greece, we shoulda left.”

 

“We will have to be ready for tomorrow,” Elektra says, finally breaks the silence, “Anything could happen. You cannot act like you did tonight.”

 

She’s right, goddamnit, she’s absolutely right.

 

He can’t get lost again.

 

Matt turns towards them, “What did he do?”

 

“None o’ your fuckin’ business, Red.”

 

“He almost shot and killed one of the targets. It seemed as though he was acting mindlessly. I had to call for him several times before he even responded.”

 

She’s got no right to tell Red all that, kind of makes him want to get back in the fray before he loses it.

 

“We could still leave,” he wants them to stop talking about him, “There’s time and I still got the money.”

 

But he knows they won’t take up the offer. They’re going to head back to the apartment and brace themselves for tomorrow and he’s gonna end up fucking following them anyway.


	15. send lawyers, guns, and money, the shit has hit the fan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> title is from the warren zevon song 'lawyers, guns, and money'

He thinks he’s been drugged, probably.

 

The world usually doesn’t feel like it’s melting, even on bad days and there isn’t usually this much time missing. His hands are cuffed behind his back, pulled tight enough that he can’t feel his fingers outside of a staticy buzz. There’s a hood over his head and someone on either side of him, forcing him along even though his legs really can’t seem to remember how to walk.

 

It must be someone who knows him, or knows of him.

 

Got him before he even had the chance to fight back.

 

Or maybe he did fight back, maybe he just can’t remember. The last thing he can clearly picture is getting back to the apartment. Nobody said a word and the city was so fucking quiet and he couldn’t sleep at all.

 

He doesn’t know where Elektra and Red are, can’t hear them anywhere in the room.

 

It makes his blood run ice cold, gets him in a mood. If something happened to them…

 

The pins and needles in his fingers are really starting to eat at him, makes everything feel wrong.

 

Whoever’s leading him along made sure he couldn’t use his hands, which just doubles down on the likelihood that they know about him, know about his skills. But they didn’t break ‘em, so they probably figure he can be bought out. Not a lost cause yet.

 

It’s easier to walk after a while, but he almost trips over a raised part of the floor. The people on either side of him tighten their grip on him and keep forcing him forward. The sound of the floor changes past the raised part and then there’s a feeling in his gut that tells him he’s in an elevator.

 

He’d break his thumb if he could feel it. Slip outta the restraints nice and easy.

 

Nobody can know you’re planning to run until it’s show time, so he stays still. Feels like he’s wearing his jacket over the suit but they’ve probably already taken everything from him once and are definitely gonna search him again once he gets where they need him to go.

 

He’s got a feeling he knows who it is, knows why someone didn’t just put a bullet in his head when he couldn’t fight back. Went to all the trouble of drugging him, so they needed him alive.

 

But it scares him more than he’d like to admit that Elektra and Red don’t seem to be here. It’s got his heart right in his throat. Doesn’t help that he won’t be able to run, or to  _ fight _ , until whatever he’s on wears off.

 

The elevator doors open and he’s forced forward by two palms against his back. Still holding onto his arms, though, keeping him upright because what he’s doing hardly counts as walking. It’s demeaning and his head keeps lolling off to the side.

 

“This is unacceptable. Get that damn hood off of him.”

 

So he was right.

 

And if he wasn’t so blissed out on barbiturates, he’d either be frozen up or bolting right about now.

 

But one of the people behind him pulls the hood off. He can see Fisk from a sideways angle, can’t pick his head up enough to look right at him. Someone grabs him by the back of his neck, forces him to look straight ahead.

 

“You idiots gave him too much.”

 

“We didn’t want him to wake up, we couldn’t afford those kind of casualties.”

 

His eyelids are heavy, eyes rolling back in his head ever so often. Feels like he might just black out again.

 

“You’re lucky he didn’t overdose. You know he’s never done much other than binge drinking.”

 

_ Not so sure I’m not overdosing,  _ he wants to speak but he can barely move his mouth.

 

“Search him, be thorough. He’s always armed, even if you don’t think he is.”

 

The suits pull the jacket off him, start digging through the pockets. Too distracted to notice him almost careening over but one of them yanks him back to his feet just in time. Then they both search the pouches on his belt. One of them gets the toothpicks, the other gets the matchsticks and his smokes.

 

A third suit runs over, grabs all the things they confiscated and gets the hell out of dodge. Probably figures he can’t do anything now that they’ve taken all his gear.

 

“Bullseye,” Fisk addresses him directly for the first time so far,  _ fucking finally, _ “Can you hear me?”

 

“Mmhhmm.”

 

It’s the most he can manage.

 

“And can you understand me?”

 

He makes the noise again, more drawn out this time. At least he’s keeping his head up on his own, finally. Still needs the suits to keep him upright and standing, though.

 

“You’ve been very useful, Bullseye. Maybe even an asset to me. You were efficient, and careful, and you had enough discretion to know when you should do a job quietly. You were one of the best. You had many qualities that made you more tolerable to work with than any other hired hand on the market.”

 

Fisk doesn’t seem to ever shut up, just keeps droning on and on. It’s not easy to keep his eyes open and maybe if Fisk had said some of that shit earlier, they wouldn’t be in this situation. All he wanted was a little recognition. That, and for Fisk to leave him and Red alone.

 

“But,” Fisk says, clasps his hands and rests them on the table, “You’ve become a cost to me. You  _ were  _ one of the best. If you were  _ still  _ one of the best, this wouldn’t be a problem. But I’m not getting any return from you anymore.”

 

He couldn’t run, even if he wanted to. Not when he’s like this. So he’ll bide his time, let Fisk talk his ear off until he can move fast enough.

 

“You have the  _ gall  _ to short me by being too much trouble after everything I’ve done for you? I pay for your apartment. I cover your gas, your electricity, your water. I set up all of your accounts and gotten paperwork for all of your aliases. I pay for your dental work, for your medical bills, of which there are  _ plenty,”  _ Fisk’s words are still even, but his face is melting into something like rage, _ “ _ I even  cover your  _ psychiatric care _ and all the fun little pills they’ve prescribed you, which you’re obviously not taking if you think you can just play  _ house  _ with Daredevil and his assassin broad.”

 

“Fuck you,” his voice sounds slurred, worse than when he drinks, almost chokes on the effort of each word, “‘m not playin’ house.”

 

“Really?”

 

Fisk’s hands move across the table to a tape recorder. He never noticed it before, tries to look over at it but his head just starts lolling again and he gets lost in the process of holding it up.

 

The tape clicks, rolling with a grainy ambient noise. Then, it pops, starts picking up some actual sound.

 

“ _ I have money. Enough to get you two to Greece or fuckin’ wherever. _ ”

 

It’s his voice, alright. He knows what he sounds like, even knows what he fucking said. Just didn’t know Fisk was still listening.

 

“ _ But you have to take me with you. _ ”

 

He cleaned the kitchen, he tore the damn room apart to make sure there weren’t any bugs. Hell, he checked the whole fucking apartment to find all the mics he could. But Fisk was listening anyway, probably heard everything they were talking about, probably knew the war was gonna happen.

 

“Awfully quiet now, aren’t you, Bullseye?” 

 

Fisk shuts the tape recorder off, leans back in his desk chair.

 

He was listening, he heard everything. He didn’t step in and stop it. He just let them go ahead and do it. He wanted them to slip up so he could catch them.

 

He  _ got  _ Bullseye. Lord knows where Matt and Elektra are, might’ve just left him for dead.

 

And now he’s gonna get all the fallout for it.

 

He’s always the fuckin’ scapegoat, always the fuckin’ whipping boy.

 

Just let him get in trouble because nobody really cares if you use him as a punching bag anyway. Just take it out on Bullseye, nobody’s gonna stop you, not even Bullseye.

 

“I could recoup some of my losses, there are a few people with a bounty on your head, but the numbers aren’t too impressive after word got out about what was going on up in that head of yours.”

 

His body still feels like it’s suspended in jello, but he can stand on his own and he can keep his head upright and he can feel his hands again. Fisk has a cup of pens on his desk, he just needs to wait for the right moment.

 

“But I could always get some personal satisfaction out of having you hunted down in the streets like a dog.”

 

He can work with either hand, even though he favors the left hand more. But the right’s been broken more times and he doesn’t want to fuck it up permanently. He needs to make a decision. Security now or pay-off later.

 

“You’ve betrayed me, you’ve inconvenienced me, and you’ve cost me more than you were ever worth,” Fisk’s eyes are cold, voice sends a shiver down his spine, “But I’m here because people stand by me and you’re  _ there  _ because they don’t stand by you.”

 

He’s done it before, keeps forcing it until he hears the crack. Then he slips his right hand out of the cuff. Lunges for the desk and catches the cup of pens. 

 

There are guns trained on him in an instant. He must be moving faster than he thought because everything feels so fucking slow but nobody’s stopped him yet. Doesn’t have time to test the weight of anything, so he picks a pen and hopes for the best. Lobs it at the fucking window as hard as he can.

 

It wedges in the glass, doesn’t even make it all the way through.

 

The windows are reinforced. Bulletproof, supposedly.

 

He forgot, he fucking forgot.

 

“You should’ve aimed for my head, Bullseye,” Fisk laughs and laughs but he’s still got the rest of the pens.

 

He tucks them into one of the pouches on his belt, slow movements to make it less obvious but everyone’s watching him like a hawk.

 

“The only reason you aren’t dead is because you’re not worth the cost of a cleaning crew. They’ll at least wait until you’re out back.”

 

He lets his mind go completely blank, same way he does when he’s lining up a shot.

 

Then he smashes the cup against the ground and all hell breaks loose.

 

Everyone’s reaching after him and he manages to slip past them all but he can’t seem to figure out how. He’s seeing but he’s not watching and he’s just focused on moving. They won’t kill him inside, can’t get blood on the carpet.

 

But there isn’t carpet anymore. There’s concrete.

 

He blinks, once, twice. Realizes he’s in the stairwell.

 

It’s smarter than the elevator, more chances to ricochet.

 

The door bursts open, some of the suits hot on his tail and he jumps down three steps at a time.

 

His hands go to his hip and he finds fewer pens than he remembers. Still enough to tide him over, but he’s been moving without realizing it.

 

The one he throws now collides with the metal handrail, bounces back against the concrete wall and continues on into the suit at the top of the stairs. Hits right between the eyes and he goes down hard. Takes out a few others on the way down, like fuckin’ dominos.

 

Bullseye ducks into the next level. Office space full of cubicles, people in blazers just staring at him. Just gaping, kind of stuck in time.

 

He looks down, finds that his leg is bleeding. Smells like something’s burning. Bullet must’ve grazed him.

 

Door opens behind him and he climbs up onto the desk, doesn’t step on the paperwork the drone’s working on, goes over the cubicle wall to the next one.

 

Everyone starts running after that. Sounds like there might be some more gunshots, but all of the chaos is kind of distorted, like his head’s underwater.

 

He’s still got the same amount of pens as the last time he checked, which means Matty will be happy. He didn’t risk hitting any civilians, just the way Matty likes.

 

Takes a hard right, heads straight for the windows. Only Fisk is important enough for reinforced glass.

 

He crosses his arms in front of his face and throws himself through the window.

 

The glass shatters around him and he can’t really feel the cuts but he knows what they  _ will  _ feel like. Eventually. The ground’s coming at him but he knows he can stick the landing. All the shards of  glass rain down around him and it looks goddamn beautiful.

 

He lands alright, slides into a roll. Damn near knocks the wind out of him and it takes a while for him to get to his feet. None of the people gawking around on the pavement are hurt too bad, they’re all still standing.

 

“I think that’s Bullseye.” 

 

He dusts the glass off, kind of winces when he realizes some of it’s stuck in him.

 

“What was he doing in Fisk Industries?” 

 

“Why’s he just standing there?”

 

He should run, but all the energy he had disappeared as soon as he hit the ground. Instead, he’s trying to pull the glass out of his arms and kind of choking on the panicked feeling that he just can’t move. He’s been drugged a time or two before, always feels like the kind of nightmare where you just can’t run fast enough.

 

The rest of the world keeps moving around him. Someone unpauses the bystanders and they start to scatter. But he’s still trapped in the moment.

 

Elektra and Red aren’t coming back for him. Maybe they’re dead, maybe they left him, but they sure as hell aren’t here and he’s all alone, like he always is.

 

Someone grabs him from behind and he swings backwards until he hears the crunch of his elbow connecting with the fucker’s nose. It buys him a few seconds but he still can’t make it far before the suit hooks his arms under Bullseye’s armpits and lifts him off the ground. It feels like his damn shoulders are gonna dislocate and he kicks out at the suit’s shins but it doesn’t do much of anything.

 

He’s being dragged back into the building and he knows Fisk’s really gonna kill him this time.

 

But the suit’s stupid because he didn’t think to actually go through with dislocating his arms. He can still move them enough to get one of the pens, keeps it between his fingers until they’re actually in the lobby.

 

Then, he lobs it at one of the marble walls.

 

There aren’t many people left in here, most of the stragglers are cowering behind the furniture. They won’t get in the way. But he still hopes that he lined the shot up right, even though he knows he never misses.

 

He stops fighting back after he hears it click off the first wall, ricocheting to the second one. If he did it right, the suit should go limp right about now.

 

On cue, he lets go of Bullseye, who drops to the ground. Manages to roll out of the way before the suit goes down, pen sticking out of the base of his neck, right where the brain stem should be.

 

There’s gonna be more and he’s only got a few pens left. He gets up, but it’s more of a process than it ought to be.

 

At least he knows how to hold his own in a fight. He's been all on his lonesome for a long while, had to learn how to hold his own. If you can't keep 'em happy, sometimes you gotta hit back.

 

The next wave of suits hits the lobby. Only a handful of them, like they're trying to wear him down. They don't have to know that he already feels run ragged down to the bone. He just has to keep them scared of him.

 

He twirls one of the pens between his fingers. There's five left after this one. Five more chances to buy some time and run, or he could get to the front desk and use whatever's there. That's probably a safer bet than trying to run.

 

The suit in front shoots the wall next to him, makes him jump outta his skin. Reminds him why he doesn't do warning shots. His mind goes blank and he's aware of the pen leaving his hand.

 

The suit goes down, gun hits the marble, echoes off the walls.

 

Five more pens.

 

He doesn't always trust his eyes but sometimes it's easier to let instinct take over. He doesn't telegraph movements, he just knows trajectories.

 

Manages to not get shot, even with all the chaos of the lobby. Another two go down, three pens left but there's more suits spilling into the room. He runs for the front desk, jumps up onto the counter and drops down behind it.

 

It won't offer much cover and he can't see the shots, just hear them, so he doesn't know where they're gonna hit. But he needs to catch his breath, needs to get something else to fend them off.

 

He fucking hates close quarters. Never gonna take a job where he isn't staked out on a rooftop again if he manages to survive.

 

He grabs one of the paperweights and waits for a lull in the gunshots. Stands up just enough to brain one of the suits with it, sends him backwards into the one behind him.

 

Gets another one--gutsy little fuck, creeping towards the desk--with a handful of thumbtacks. He's out of pens, doesn't know when he lost the last three.

 

And he's laughing, doesn't know why. Strike. Goal. Hole in one.  _ Bullseye _ .

 

It's the only sound in the room, just him laughing and laughing and barely managing to breathe between it.

 

He wins. He always wins.

 

The whole world's been trying to kill him since the day he was born and he's still fucking kicking.

 

He drops down behind the desk, laying back against the wall. If anyone else comes in, he won't be able to fight his way out, but he's fucking tired and he's bleeding from a couple dozen places.

 

Someone pulled the fire alarm, which is stupid. Nothing’s on fire. Well, he doesn’t think anything’s on fire. Everything about him aches, hurts like hell but it’s a good sign. The drugs are wearing off, finally. He’s stopped laughing, stopped doing much of anything other than focusing on the heaving terrible way he’s trying to suck in air.

 

It’s like he’s drowning, but not. He knows the feeling of aspirating on blood and it’s not the same but he’s gasping for air like he’s choking anyway.

 

And then he hears footsteps, even overtop of the sound of the fire alarm. Heavy, steady, deliberate. Each one clicking against the marble. Too light to be Fisk, too slow to be one of the suits.

 

Elektra steps up to the front desk, looks over at him down on the floor. He waves at her, action half-hearted and aimless, and fucking hopes she’s real.

 

“Get up. We have to find Matt.”

 

He stays on the ground, doesn’t want to try pushing himself up yet, and groans. She looks him over, arms crossed, not a hair out of place. Only sign that she’s been in a fight is the split lip and black eye.

 

“I’m full of glass.  _ And  _ sedatives,” he gestures vaguely, hopes his words don’t sound as drawn out as they feel, “But those are almost gone.”

 

“ _ Bullseye _ ,” her voice is dark, eyes severe, so he forces himself to his feet and climbs back over the desk.

 

There are six suits splayed out on the ground in front of it; got a pen each, half embedded in their brains, right between the eyes. He doesn’t remember much of what happened, just knew that it was happening and now he can see how it played out.

 

Elektra doesn’t stop on her way out, just says, “That is far more efficient than the  _ games  _ you usually play.”

 

But he doesn’t go for the forehead killing shot, hasn’t since he was fourteen.

 

(Well, doesn’t go for it unless he’s desperate. Which explains the six bodies on the floor.)

 

“Too easy,” he shrugs, following after.


	16. wide eyed, one eye fixed on the door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter title comes from 'fear is a man's best friend' by john cale
> 
> ALSO: i've officially finished writing this whole damn thing. it clocked in at 24 chapters and 83k words. all that's left is to keep on posting while i try to find somethin' else to do with my life

They don't have a goal in mind; he might have a few ideas of where Fisk would take Matty, but it's clear now that he doesn't know Fisk at  _ all _ so they're searching everywhere. It's been twenty minutes of terse silence, breaking into the abandoned places he knows Fisk uses as shell properties, when he works up the nerve to ask what he's been thinking about all day.

 

“What happened?”

 

Elektra stops in her tracks, turns back to look him over, eyes boring little holes in his skin. Can't even squirm too much because he's all too aware of the glass stuck in his arms now.

 

“I don't remember, I was  _ drugged.” _

 

But that's not really why he doesn't remember much of the last couple of days, is it? His memory's been shot for a long while and the only thing he's got going for him is his reputation, which is now  _ also  _ shot.

 

“Fisk captured us at the apartment, he ensured that we were separated,” she keeps walking, sounds all matter of fact.

 

“Oh, wow, I _never_ would've guessed,” he scowls, “When did he take us? Was there a fight? Fuck, I don't even know what happened after we got back, much less when we _got_ to the apartment.”

 

“It is not important. All that matters is that we find Matt.”

 

Maybe she doesn't remember either, which would mean it's whatever Fisk drugged them with and not something wrong with him.

 

There might be a target on their backs, too. Well, his back. But no one's come after them yet. He doesn't know if anyone's still on their side, how the day shook out after last night. So they have to be  careful while they're searching.

 

But Red could be anywhere. Anywhere in the whole fucking city.

 

And they're on a tight schedule; he'll never kill Red, but Fisk has no such compunctions. Might already be dead, but he won't think about that.

 

He has to figure it out, has to fix it.

 

Fisk likes to taunt, likes to send a message. He knows who Red is under the mask. Probably knows just as much about Red as Bullseye does.

 

Which means he knows about Red's old man and--

 

“He's in the gym.”

 

Elektra turns back to face him, “We cannot waste time chasing any loose ends you  _ think _ mean something.”

 

“Battlin’ Jack Murdock,” he says, “Shot dead in the streets. Killer was never caught. Left behind one Matthew Michael Murdock. He's in the gym.”

 

He could be wrong, but it’s the best lead they’ve got. 

 

Evidently Elektra agrees with him, makes a sharp turn towards Hell’s Kitchen. The gym’s not quite abandoned, but it’s definitely not cared for. He’s staked it out a few times, never seen many people in  it. Plus, Fisk can pay people to look the other way.

 

* * *

They stop a few buildings back from the gym, watch the entrances a while.

 

There’s no one outside guarding it, which feels too easy, feels like a trap. Isn’t anyone going in or out, either.

 

Which means they’re barking up the wrong tree or all the manpower is needed inside. Both viable options.

 

“You go in through the front,” Elektra pulls the sais from their holsters, “I will take the back.”

 

“Got it.”

 

He drops down to the sidewalk, sticks to the shadows.

 

He’s unarmed, got nothing in his pockets, doesn’t have anything left from the office showdown. What he wouldn’t do to have the throwing knives right about now… 

 

But they’re back at the apartment, which is absolutely off limits. Too hot to drop by anytime soon.

 

Doesn’t know where the cat went, either, but he hopes it got out alright. Can’t go back for it now, might be gone forever, which is reason enough to want Fisk dead on top of everything else that happened today. Has to admit he got attached to it, even misses it.

 

The entryway is clear, at least. He keeps his back to the wall as he moves further into the foyer. Posters on the wall don’t look like they’ve been updated since Battlin’ Jack was up and kicking. 

 

There’s nothing much he can palm as an insurance policy, but he should have Elektra covering him. So he keeps going, opens the door from the foyer into the actual gym. He loosens up a bit when he  realizes the only other person in the room is Red, standing dead center in the ring.

 

Doesn’t know why they call it a ring when it’s a fuckin’ square, but he’s just relieved that Red’s still alive. He makes up to the platform, almost pulls himself up but he figures he shouldn’t just sneak up  on Matty.

 

“Elektra’s on her way,” he waits for Red to look towards him, making sure he won’t get hit for his troubles.

 

Then, he pulls himself up into the ring. Makes a correction to his mental note because there’s a handful of suits laid out on the ground. Knocked out cold, which isn’t exactly standard for Red.

 

“This was my dad’s gym,” Red says, keeps wringing his hands, “He died here, did you know that? Outside, right outside, and the police never found out who did it.”

 

He knows about the murder, has a hunch he knows who did it, or at least who set it all up.

 

“Elektra said you killed your dad. I… I-I don’t understand that. How could you?”

 

He figured the question had to be coming eventually but today is not the fucking day to deal with it.

 

“Doesn’t matter much. It’s over now,” he can taste bile at the back of his mouth.

 

“He didn’t want me to fight, didn’t want me to ever set foot in here. But I was stubborn, I kept doing it in secret.”

 

Bullseye looks over the suits on the ground, doesn’t want any of them waking up while they’re unprepared. Wonders where the fuck Elektra is, should’ve joined them by now.

 

“I wasn’t very good at keeping secrets, though,” he’s picking up speed as he’s talking, almost sounds frantic, “We got in a few good arguments about that, but I still kept it up. I guess I just wanted to be  able to hit  _ back _ . That’s what law school was, really. But I couldn’t hit back like that, not really.”

 

“So the Devil came out to play?”

 

Red’s shaking, hands clenching in and out of fists, “It’s  _ not  _ playing, I don’t do this for fun, I do this because I  _ have  _ to.”

 

“Take it easy, Red,” he keeps back a good distance, drops his voice low, “ _ Matt _ , it’s alright.”

 

“It’s not, not really. I can’t go back to my apartment, we can’t go back to your apartment, I can’t go back to work, I spent the day fighting off all of these men. I don’t know how I got here, not  _ here  _ here, I don’t know how I ended up in this gym, with Wilson Fisk after me, talking to  _ you  _ like it’s  _ normal _ , like I  _ know  _ you.”

 

He finds himself moving closer, doesn’t really know why but next thing he knows, he’s holding Red’s wrists. Thumbs pressed to the palms, stopping them from shaking. Half expects Red to headbutt  him, break his nose again.

 

“I don’t know, Red, I really don’t know.”

 

“Everything’s falling apart,” Red laughs, high pitched and frantic, more of a giggle.

 

“Yeah, it is.”

 

Worst part is, he doesn’t even know where the pieces are gonna land.

 

Red rips away from him, twists around like he heard movement. There’s something to be said about Matty’s senses because he didn’t hear anything at all. But it’s not long before Elektra slips into the doorway like a shadow, brows furrowed, jaw set.

 

He can see blood dripping from her sais for a fraction of a second before she slides them back into the holsters. Their eyes meet and he gets the message right away:  _ Matt doesn’t have to know about  _ _ this. _

 

She calls out, “Matt?”

 

Red vaults up and over the ropes, heads towards her but she’s already on her way to meet him in the middle.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

“I’m fine--” “--Just a little--” “--Beat up.”

 

Their voices sync up, cut in and out, play off of each other. They’re a good fit, made to be together. He sits on the edge of the ring, arms resting on the ropes, heels kicking back against the side of it.

 

“We oughta get outta here before any of them,” he gestures back towards the bodies in the ring, “Wake up for round two.”

 

“There’s nowhere left to go,” Red says, doesn’t look back.

 

“Shhh,” Elektra’s fingers brush against Red’s cheek, “We will find something, darling.”

 

The love is there, at the heart of it, but she’s trying to soften him up. Bullseye has a feeling he knows where it’s headed. Left his lockpicks at the apartment, so he hopes she had the sense to leave some bobby pins in before they were dragged out of there.

 

“I can get us a place to sleep,” he knows the part he has to play, “But you aren’t gonna like it, Red.”

 

“At this point, I don't even care,” the crack in his voice says he's lying.

 

* * *

Just based off experience, he has an idea of which neighborhoods have the most home-away-from-home apartments. Knows the places where the apartments go empty ten months out of the year, only used when someone's here for business. He prefers those to empty places, even though the empty ones are safer. Doesn't much like sleeping on the floor.

 

He's been staking out this particular building for the past twenty minutes. Elektra's getting frustrated but he has to do this  _ right. _ It seems like it might be the place, lobby's open to anyone, don't need to be buzzed in. It's easy, pick the lock to the maintenance door and find a room that isn't currently occupied.

 

He's out of practice, but he can still get the job done. Even if it's just for a night, they have a place to sleep.

 

“I'm gonna need a couple bobby pins,” he says, crouched by the maintenance door, “Don't have my lockpicks.”

 

Elektra pulls three from her hair, passed them over to him. He rolls them between his palms a second, unfolds one and hooks it between his teeth, pulling the wax end off. Won't work if you leave it on.

 

“Matty, you're lookout. If anyone moves near us, I want to know.”

 

The irony isn't lost on him, but it doesn't matter at this point. Takes him longer to pop the door than it used to, kind of makes his chest tighten. He should've kept practicing, shouldn't've taken so long.

 

They slip into the stairwell, probably should've gone in the window, no security cameras there. But he doesn't think he can climb between the stiffness in his joints and the glass in his arms.

 

So they head up to one of the middle floors. He's got an idea of where one of the empty looking apartments was, knows which side it was facing. But he's not entirely sure, so he pauses at the end of the hallway.

 

“Matty, I need you to tell me which apartment doesn't have anyone in it.”

 

It they had more time, he would've figured it out on his own. But they don't have any time at all. It's a long shot but Red seems to be good at that kind of thing.

 

“I…” Red's hands curl to fists at his side, but he lets his shoulders slump forward, “Okay.”

 

It doesn't look impressive, per se, but he finds himself holding his breath anyway. Red's just leaning forward again, like he did up on the rooftop.

 

The silence drags on for ages, but then Red straightens up, “Six apartments out, on the left hand side.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

He moves up to the room, starts on the lock. Door locks are usually easy, so long as the chain isn't on but Elektra's sai can probably cut through it.

 

It takes a try or two before the mechanisms unlock. He turns the handle, pushes it open as quietly as he can while Elektra and Red head over to join him.

 

“Home sweet home,” he drawls, slips into the room.

 

Elektra closes the door behind her, locks the door and slides on the chain. Bullseye trusts Red's judgment, so he flicks a few lights on, settles back in one of the chairs at the table.

 

“Can someone find me some fucking tweezers?” He groans, pauses for a second before adding, “ _ Please.” _

 

Red sits down across from him, elbows braced against the table, fingers laced against the back of his head.

 

“What if the owner of this apartment comes home?”

 

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. We’ll deal with it.”

 

“I won’t let you kill anyone, not anymore.”

 

He laughs, tries to keep it quiet so nobody hears them in here, “Wouldn’t be anyone left if I killed everyone who came home while I was sleeping in their place, Red. I’ve been doing this a long while now. I’m not stupid, I know you gotta get out before anyone sees you, which is why you sleep with the bedroom door open and the windows unlocked.”

 

Elektra sidles up next to him, sets a pair of tweezers down with a click. Then, she joins them at the table, palms resting on the handles of the sais.

 

He goes for the first piece of glass. Would cut the damn suit off if it wasn't the only one he has; it's not like he can just get a new one. All his money is gone, Fisk won't get another one tailored for him. So he'll be careful and patch it back up after he's done.

 

He pulls the chunk out, kind of winces as it starts bleeding fresh. Drops it on the table and Red twitches, just the slightest amount. Most people wouldn't notice it.

 

Elektra pulls the sais free from the holster, starts working a cleaning cloth over them. So that's how it's going to be. She'll work as long as he's pulling out glass and Matty won't be able to tell what's his blood and what's the blood all over Handsome's sais.

 

He'd rather be drunk, but that involves being careful and watering down what's left so nobody knows he's taken any. Which means he's doing this sober, whether he wants to or not.

 

The brunt of it is in his forearms; better that than his face, though. He ends up bracing his elbow against the table, fingers resting against his shoulder; an awkward angle but it's one that works.

 

He keeps pulling out pieces of glass and Elektra keeps cleaning her blades and Red doesn't do much of anything at all.

 

“How long does this  _ take?” _ Red snarls, fists clenched.

 

“I jumped  _ through  _ a fuckin’ window. It's gonna take a while.”

 

He swaps hands seamlessly once he's done with the right arm, pays to be able to use both of them. Red’s ambidextrous as well, he’s seen him in action; doesn’t know for sure but it seems fitting that Elektra would be too.

 

After all the glass is out, he pokes at it with the tweezers, nudges it around, leaving little stains on the wood. Starts making a ring around the little cluster of glass in the center. Elektra catches his wrist,  lightning quick, squeezes hard until his fingers open.

 

“No. I have indulged your little  _ compulsion  _ thus far, but I draw the line at  _ this, _ ” she spits, glaring at him.

 

Red looks up, brows furrowed, no good at hiding concern, “What’s he doing?”

 

“Organizing the glass from his arms into  _ circles _ , like he  _ always  _ does.”

 

She’s right, of fucking course. He always comes back to this. It’s nice to have some order, a perfect loop with no destination, always following the same path. He likes knowing where things will land, but that’s just gonna go on forever, won’t stop unless an outside force intervenes.

 

“It’s not a compulsion, it’s a calling card.”

 

(Is it still a calling card if there isn’t anyone around to see it?)

 

Elektra’s eyes settle on his mask, lips drawn to a thin line, “Look at everything you are, look at everything you present yourself as, and tell me that this is not a compulsion.”

 

The way she’s looking at him makes him squirm in his seat, but he plays it off, settles back in the chair with his arms crossed, “Fuck you.”

 

And then the corners of her lips curl up into that little cheshire cat smile.

 

He pulls the mask off, throws it down on the table. She won and she knows it. All but ‘fessed up to something he’s never even admitted to himself. She’s better than he thought.

 

“Can you  _ stop  _ this?” Red snarls, “Infighting gets us nowhere. We only know for sure that we’re on the same side and we have to be ready for whatever comes next which means working as a team. I don’t like it any more than either of you do, but we’re in this together now.”

 

“ _ Fine, _ ” Elektra says, voice clipped.

 

“She started it.”

 

Red’s hands clench to fists, yell stifled behind his teeth, “I have had the worst day of my entire life, a life that doesn’t even  _ exist  _ anymore, and--”

 

“Actually,” Bullseye braces his elbow against the table, chin resting on his hand, “The worst day of your life was yesterday. It’s one-thirty already, it’s morning.”

 

There’s a few seconds of perfect silence before he decides he’s feeling a mite self destructive today. He’s in a mood, has been for a few days now. Starts whistling the refrain to  _ Good Morning,  _ figures it’s a roundabout way to where he wants to be.

 

Red’s knuckles connect with his cheek, sends him back in his chair with the taste of blood on his teeth. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, good enough to make him settle down.

 

Smiles to himself a bit,  _ you’re out of your mind. No bank’s gonna foreclose ‘til Monday morning. _

 

“I,” Red wrings his hands before letting them rest in his lap, “I shouldn’t have done that.”

 

“Nah, it’s good. Think I needed some sense knocked into me.”

 

It’s quick, almost too quick to tell, but he thinks he might see Red tense up, muscles pulled taut while he grinds his teeth.

 

“We are not making any progress,” Elektra draws all the attention to her, always does, “We may as well not be doing this at all.”

 

Red sighs, “She’s right. We should try this again in the morning.”

 

One night isn’t gonna fix this shit, isn’t gonna make them argue less, but he’s tired, too. So he’ll let it slide, won’t put up much of a fight. He needs to keep on their good side, after all. Needs to stay  with them.

 

Elektra and Red slip off together, leave him out of the joke, alone at the table. The glass is still in front of him, broken ring around the pile in the center. He could finish it, but then she’d be right.

 

Maybe no one’s in the center. Maybe they’re the ring, empty place where Bullseye should fit.

 

He cleans the glass off carefully, uses a tea towel. There’s blood on it now, but he can wash it or he can take it with him. Doesn’t matter if nobody notices. He wants to get out of the suit now,  _ really  _ wants to try and fix it but it’s late.

 

So he peels out of the suit and leaves it at the table. The cuts on his arms look worse when they aren’t surrounded by fabric, he can already see where they’ll mix in with the rest of the scars. Some of them are clear, have a spot where he knows they fit into. The burns dotted between the rest, the long puckered line snaking along the side of his head. The scar on his stomach is fresh in his mind, still  hasn’t gotten Elektra back for that one.

 

Barely remembers where all the rest came from. Broken glass, or fights, or jobs gone wrong, take your fuckin’ pick.

 

He better clean up, though. Knows better than to bleed on the bed-spread. So he washes his arms off in the kitchen sink, watches the bloody water circling down the drain.

 

The cuts sting as he lets them air dry, passes the time thinking about where he’s gonna sleep. 

 

He could spend the night on the couch, but he’d rather be in a real bed. He could go looking for a guest bedroom, but the less things he touches, the better. And it’s not really about the bed, is it? It’s about Elektra and Red, all tangled up in each other.

 

At the end of the day, it’s always about Elektra and Red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact! i finished this chapter at least a month ago but somehow my posting managed to line up just PERFECTLY with this chapter being 3 days after don lockwood's lucky day (march 24th) aka the gag from singing in the rain i referenced in this chapter


	17. the city is restless, ready to pounce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter title comes from 'add it up' by the violent femmes
> 
> also!! the fic itself is done!! i've written the whole thing and now it's just a matter of editing and posting!!

His arms are dry and he’s almost nodded off a few times when he decides that the worst that could happen is getting punched  _ again _ , getting his teeth knocked out  _ again _ , getting  _ another  _ concussion or  _ another  _ broken nose. It’s old hat, anyway.

 

So he gets up from the table, cold and stiff since the thermostat isn’t running and he’s only wearing the undershirt and underwear he had on underneath his suit. Doesn’t have anything other than the clothes on his back. They’ll have to take some clothes from the apartment, don’t have any civvies at all.

 

He moves quietly, mostly out of habit. Slips into the bedroom like a shadow. Elektra’s facing the door, eyes closed, hair splayed out, hands resting up by her lips. Looks soft, younger almost. Never seen her like this before, figures this must be what people see when they gawk at her on the street. Red’s behind her, can’t see much of him but it looks like he’s asleep.

 

Bullseye flops down on the end of the bed, curls in on himself enough that he fits.

 

And then Red kicks him, hard enough that his back hits against the metal bed-frame and he just stays there, lets the cold seep into the skin of his shoulder blades. Red sits up, chest heaving in the low light from the window.

 

“Who’s there?”

 

“Easy, Red.”

 

“ _ Bullseye _ ?” Red threads his fingers through his hair, over and over again, pushing it back out of his eyes, “Did you really think you could just come in here and not get attacked?”

 

He makes a vague noise, kind of shrugs as best he can.

 

“Good Lord, Bullseye, it’s like you  _ want  _ me to hurt you,” Red’s breathing more evenly, still propped up on his hands.

 

“It’s not like that, Red,” he says, pulls back from the bed frame, “Not like that at all.”

 

“You keep pushing me and pushing me and pushing me until I snap. And I hate it, I hate that you do that to me, but you seem to  _ like  _ it. Elektra always says that you’re smiling.”

 

Maybe he does like it, maybe that’s why he keeps doing it. Mostly, he just wants people to pay attention to him, for him to be the center of focus.

 

“You’ve got it all wrong, Red. I just like gettin’ under people’s skin.”

 

“Don’t do this,” Red sighs, “Not now.”

 

“Alright, alright.”

 

“You’re just lucky Elektra wasn’t awake,” Red shakes his head, yawns a second.

 

Then he settles back down, doesn’t make Bullseye leave, doesn’t ask why he’s here, doesn’t put up a fight. It’s nice, almost, even though he’s still cold. Doesn’t think he could get away with sleeping anywhere other than on top of the covers, out of sight, out of mind.

 

* * *

He sleeps fitfully but it'll be a fair trade, already played voyeur to Matty's nightmares once. Elektra's a different story, but he's showing her that he's not a threat.

 

Keeps himself distracted trying to match his breathing to Elektra and Red's. It's a matter of tricking himself into thinking no one will find them.

 

He dreams of the two of them on the ground in front of him, blank eyes with a hole in between. Turns the gun back on himself and completes the circle.

 

It's a better one than most.

 

Half the bed is empty when he jolts awake, gasping and clawing for air. Slides his way up and buries his face in the pillow. Tries to force away the feeling of the barrel of the gun.

 

Word on the street is that there are people who are precognitive out in the world, but he's fucked if he's one of them.

 

(It's not that he doesn't believe in omens, he just doesn't want to look.)

 

He needs to steady himself, even everything out. Red might hear the way his heart's beating out of his chest, the way he can't seem to catch a breath.

 

“Elektra?” 

 

Red shifts in the bed and he goes stock still.

 

_ No, it's not,  _ but he can't make a sound. And he has to still be asleep, has to have slipped into another fucking nightmare.

 

Fingers brush against his cheek like they're searching for hair to push back. He'd bolt if he wasn't stuck in place.

 

Red kind of frowns in the low light, shadows playing on his lips. Works his fingers over Bullseye's face, slow, gentle, makes his skin crawl.

 

“Your nose is crooked.”

 

“Yeah,” his voice is hoarse, pulled thin, “You keep breaking it.”

 

Red doesn’t have a response to that, just trails his fingers up to the scar on the side of Bullseye’s head, fingertips barely ghosting over it.

 

“And this? What’s it from?”

 

“Why are you  _ asking?  _ You already know the answer,” he wants to run, wants to pull away; this isn’t what they do, this isn’t who they are.

 

“Is it from me?”

 

“Jesus, Red,” he finally manages to get away, almost falls out of the damn bed, “You knew they were gonna cut me open when you caught me.”

 

He straightens up, darts for the door before Red can stop him or say something else to screw with his head or anything else like all of  _ that.  _ He’s overreacting, kind of. Just wanted to make Red feel bad. He’d be dead if Red hadn’t wrangled him back to the jail and he happens to like being slightly more lucid on a daily basis.

 

But none of that explains what the fuck just happened, and now he’s feeling restless and twitchy and generally fed up with everything. It’s settled, he’s gonna find a bar, get wasted, and fuck the bartender in lieu of paying his tab. Might even get a place to spend the night out of it, if he’s lucky.

 

Except the only clothing he’s got is the suit and he’s sure as shit not going back into the bedroom to get something to wear. And he’s still got cuts all over his arms and bruises all over his body and the kind of hangover that only comes from someone drugging you into unconsciousness.

 

So that plan’s out the window.

 

He settles for splashing his face with ice cold water and moving out to the table, head resting in his hands.

 

The really pressing question, the one he’s completely forgotten about for the past twenty minutes, is  _ where’s Elektra? _

 

She doesn’t seem to be anywhere in the apartment. Red would be more worried if he thought she’d cut and run, which must means this happens enough times to be normal. Bullseye hasn’t learned her routine, barely knows her tells, so he’ll just have to trust Red.

 

It's not much to go off of, but he'd go to the roof.

 

So he grabs the robe on the back of the bathroom door and slinks out to the hallway. The maintenance staircase goes all the way up to the roof and either he'll find her or he'll get out of that fucking apartment.

 

The sun's starting to rise, but the air's still cold and crisp. Bites into him enough to actually wake him up. He'll have to go back to the apartment eventually, doesn't have anywhere else he could go.

 

Elektra's standing on the far side of the building and he doesn't know what it means that he was right.

 

“Can't sleep?” He calls out.

 

Elektra only turns back to glare at him.

 

“Me neither.”

 

He saunters up beside her, pulls the robe tighter. She doesn't seem to ever get cold, still wearing her suit.

 

He didn't really get a chance to survey the damage before. The night of, sure, but not the aftermath. The streets are empty, not just the usual slowness of late night/early morning. It's unsettling, doesn't look like New York at all. There's no fighting in the streets, no riots or fires or brawls, still no sirens.

 

“Fisk would have put a stop to this if he was still in control,” Elektra finally speaks, voice soft above the wind.

 

“So he was bluffing, what now?”

 

Elektra worries her lip, arms crossed, “We may still have support, your  _ misguided  _ childish tactics seemed to work.”

 

“We rally the troops and  _ what _ ? Take out the NYPD? Wait for someone to call in the feds? Get a little martial law going on? We're fucked either way.”

 

“You  _ started  _ this. We wanted revenge against Fisk, not the city.”

 

She's right, he went above and beyond, wasn't even getting paid to do it. But it's a matter of principle at this point.

 

He scowls, “We're getting there. I don't miss.”

 

“How?! How does this work out in our benefit?! In what world do we not end up dead or jailed?!” 

 

It’s the first real emotion he’s seen from her since that night in the alley. Teeth bared, first rays of sunlight caught in her eyes. She’s a force to be reckoned with, it’s sheer luck that he even managed to get this close.

 

“You are the stupidest person I have ever met! You do not think about anything, any consequences or anyone besides yourself! You are only  _ useful  _ when someone is present to aim you! You cannot function on your own and that is going to get us all  _ killed _ !”

 

“Elektra,” he keeps his voice soft, “Let’s talk this through with--”

 

“No.”

 

She’s got him by the neck in a second, not pressing hard but the threat is there. Head cocked to the side like she’s sizing him up.

 

“Is this what you wanted? Hm?” She tightens her grip, just enough that he’s starting to get worried, “Did you want to back us into a corner just so you could have Matt to yourself? Are you  _ delusional  _ enough to think that he needs you?  _ Wants  _ you, even?”

 

“He let me sleep in the bed,” he can’t stop himself, even though his voice is still hoarse, cut off by hands wrapped around his throat, “Woke up next to me, ran his fingers over my face, all soft and gentle.”

 

The animal look in her eyes slips away when his vision whites out. And then she lets go. Takes a step back, lips pulled to a thin line.

 

“I’ll fix this,” he rasps, “I promise.”

 

“Stop. Talking.”

 

He nods, slinks back over to the maintenance door. It’s morning anyway, he’ll go back downstairs, make some coffee, make some breakfast, pretend none of this ever happened. Bruises are gonna rise up from where she choked him out, but he should be back in the suit by then and it’ll be easy to keep pretending.

 

Elektra won’t talk about this and he won’t talk about it and Matty will never know she almost killed him, that she knows what happened back in the apartment.

 

He starts the coffee first, raids the fridge after. They’ll be long gone before anyone notices anything’s missing. Only thing he really knows how to make is eggs, but he’s running damage control so eggs it is.

 

It seems like Red’s the only one who can sleep easy, might diffuse the tension a bit if he was awake but instead Elektra’s skirting at the threshold to the kitchen in terse silence. Something about what he said set her off, which he gets. Barely understands what happened himself.

 

He’d be lying if he said it was  _ good,  _ but it wasn’t bad. It sure as hell was  _ something,  _ something out of left field, something unexpected.

 

Red strides into the room while he’s plating breakfast, probably smelled it through the walls. Comes in wearing the suit, mask tucked into his belt, makes Bullseye feel wildly underdressed now that he’s the only one out of costume.

 

He sits down after everyone’s got a plate, decides on keeping his mouth shut for once in his goddamn life. It’s hard, stewing in silence, almost suffocating in it.

 

“It’s too quiet,” Red says, takes the damn words right out of his mouth.

 

But they aren’t just talking about the kitchen, the here and now. It’s the whole damn city, the eerie emptiness of the streets.

 

“I was up on the roof, it’s a fuckin’ ghost town out there.”

 

“Yeah,” Red sets his jaw, lips curled back in a snarl, “Because  _ someone  _ declared ‘open season’ on dirty cops and assumed a city-wide game of telephone between the lowlife of New York wouldn’t end up dropping the ‘dirty’ qualifier.”

 

He doesn’t even have an argument.

 

“We need to move,” Elektra cuts in, “Get away from civilians.”

 

She’s appealing to Red, but the way her eyes flick over at Bullseye makes his skin crawl. Like she’s insinuating something but he doesn’t know what. Anything from before being drugged is a blur, one that’s eating at him worse than all the other gaps in his memory.

 

Red makes a noise of agreement, “We can find somewhere abandoned, no one gets caught in the crossfire.”

 

“Everything’s abandoned right about now, Red. Haven’t seen another living soul at all.”

 

Hasn’t seen any dead ones, either, which has to count for something.

 

“It’s settled,” Red carries on like Bullseye didn’t speak up at all, “We’ll move on after eating.”

 

* * *

They stick to the shadows for the first while but there's really no point to it. No crowd to blend into, no one even seems to be looking for them. He's the first to make the skip to just walking down the street, past the point of caring. It feels exposed like this, like he's doing something wrong.

 

He did, though. He's the reason they're in this whole situation.

 

The storefronts are all grated up, some of them smashed to pieces anyway, metal pulled apart. Collateral damage, someone taking advantage of an opportunity. The lights are on but nobody's home, display TVs flashing the emergency broadcast system logo over and over. It's an incomplete tower, some of them taken in the fray.

 

The sound's dead but the subtitles are still on.

 

_ This is not a drill, all citizens are advised to stay indoors until the national guard arrives. This is not a drill. _

 

“National fuckin’ guard?” 

 

It's louder than he meant it to be, ricocheting off the empty buildings to echo back at him. His fault, all of it.

 

Red pauses, turns back, “What?”

 

“TV's running still, subtitles say the national guard's coming.”

 

“What did you  _ do? _ ”

 

The Devil's back in Red's posture, in the light catching his teeth.

 

“I didn't mean for this to--”

 

Red whips around, muscles pulled taut as a drum, hand held up to silence him.

 

“ _ Someone's coming,”  _ he hisses, “ _ Elektra, be ready.” _

 

“It's Daredevil!” Someone calls out, comes from up above, “Fisk  _ wasn't  _ lying,  _ for once.” _

 

Bullseye cranes his neck trying to put a body to the voice. Eyes finally catch on someone perched atop the building in front of them, too far away to tell but he thinks it's fucking Spider-Man. He avoids that side of things as much as he can, prefers the things that make sense, but he knows who most of the other suits are.

 

Spider-Man swings down from his vantage point, right past the three of them, “Man, your schtick sure is on the nose now. Who'da thunk it?”

 

Bullseye crouches slowly, hopes Red can't hear him, and carefully picks up one of the shards of glass from the sidewalk. Nice piece, sizable and sharp.

 

“ _ Bullseye!”  _ Red calls out, “Stop! We aren't killing anyone, especially not people on our side.”

 

“I'm not doing anything,” he squeezes one eye shut, sets to lining up a shot as the Spider twirls around.

 

Elektra would stop him if she didn't think this was a good idea.

 

“Normally I'd just web you and leave you for the police but this is a  _ special  _ situation.”

 

Spider-Man catches him in the back, both feet connecting with his shoulder-blades. He's got the wherewithal to throw the glass shard off to the side instead of fucking landing on it, at least. He hits the ground, winded and wheezing. Only thing he can taste is blood, but he rolls over on his back anyway. Runs his tongue over his teeth and smiles. The Spider likes to watch his prey, how fitting.

 

“Pleased to meet'cha, Bullseye. You look like shit.”

 

And Spider-Man turns back to Red and Elektra, leaving him on the ground. One of his teeth is loose, keeps worrying at that with his tongue and watching the show while he tries to catch his breath. Rolls over onto his side, doesn’t want to aspirate on his own blood while he’s figuring out what to do.

 

“Good news is, you’ve finally got recognition outside of Hell’s Kitchen, bad news is, it’s because you’re number one on America’s Most Wanted."

 

Bullseye gets the tooth loose, isn’t exactly hard, all things considered.

 

“Don’t get me wrong, Daredevil, I won’t sell you out to Fisk, but I  _ will  _ make sure you don’t go anywhere until the National Guard gets here.”

 

He rolls it between his tongue and the roof of his mouth, can’t kill anyone for Red’s sake.

 

“I...” Matty pauses, leaves himself hanging on the word.

 

It’s now or never, so Bullseye sits up, slow enough that nobody notices. Spits the tooth, aims for the spinal cord. Spider-Man kind of gasps and crumples to the ground. Down for the count, but not dead. Might be paralyzed, but that’s not exactly his problem.

 

“ _ Bullseye _ ,” Red growls, “What did I tell you?”

 

Bullseye clears his throat, spits a clot of blood to the asphalt, “He’s not  _ dead _ .”

 

_ And you were seconds away from turning tail and leaving us burnt. _

 

“There will be others,” Elektra rests her hands on Red’s shoulders, “Fisk is looking for us, he is desperate enough to work with his enemies.”

 

Bullseye pushes himself up, gets back to his feet. Whole damn body’s gonna be bruised if he lives ‘til tomorrow. It’s nothing new, he knows how to take a punch, take a broken bone, take another busted tooth.

 

“We’re on a time constraint, too,” he adds, “Dunno how long it’ll be ‘til the guard gets here.”

 

“Are we just going to keep running?” Red says, voice strained, “Like we’re  _ criminals? _ ”

 

“You’re the only one who isn’t, Red.”

 

He scowls, kind of clenches his fist, hard pill to swallow. Elektra shoots Bullseye a dark look, lets him know he overstepped his bounds. Whatever. Red needed to hear it.

 

Even if he’s angry, they still get the hell out of dodge. Bullseye doesn’t know where the other suits might be hiding, wouldn’t be able to pick them off anyway for fear of really pissing Red off. So they’ll stick to the shadows, rely on Red as a warning system. Canary in the coal mine.

 

He doesn’t think anyone’s following them, but it’s impossible to tell for sure. Whole body feels on edge, on top of the all-over ache of the past few days.

 

“Where are we even going?” He huffs, ends up stopped in his tracks by Matty holding out his arm.

 

“ _ Quiet.” _

 

“I don’t  _ care!”  _ He cups his hands around his mouth, “Whoever’s up there, come down here and get us, I fucking dare you.”

 

“ _ Bullseye _ ,” Red warns, leaves the sentence open ended.

 

He crosses his arms, makes a big show out of sighing, but he settles down. Isn’t happy about it, though. Elektra’s on the other side of him, Matty in the front. She elbows him in the ribs, digs right into one of the bruises; it’s a more effective threat than Red’s.

 

“This is all on you.”

 

“Always is my fault, isn’t it?”

 

She’s right, even if he doesn’t remember much of what he did. Doesn’t remember it getting this big. Doesn’t know how to fix it. But he will, he can’t let it all end like this.

 

“Stop fighting,” Red hisses, “There’s several people here.”

 

He grits his teeth, adds under his breath, “ _ Cowards.” _

 

But it’s not exactly true, he’s just angry. He’s usually the one up on a rooftop, waiting for an opening. There’s sense in not getting within stabbing range. He’s restless and fed up and can’t seem to get his head on straight. He’s pissed at Fisk, at Elektra, at himself, fuck, he’s even pissed at Red.

 

It doesn’t matter much, who he’s angry at, because they’re headed for another fight anyway. Someone finally takes him up on the offer, drops down from a building a few blocks up. She doesn’t look dressed for a fight but when she hits the asphalt, the whole street shakes.

 

She’s not running towards them, which almost makes it worse. Just keeps marching forwards until she’s close enough that Bullseye can see the burning rage in her eyes. He could get her from here, save them a healthy helping of trouble, but Red would never allow it.


	18. bring me the head of the preacher man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> title comes from the song 'bring me the head of the preacher man' by siouxsie and the banshees. 
> 
> warning for non graphic descriptions of suicide at the very end of the chapter

She marches right up to the three of them, stops a few feet out from Red. Hands on her hips, tie undone, blazer torn, blood and grime smeared across her face. Her jaw is set, eyes wild. Looks like she just got off of work. Clocked out and headed into a war zone, but he doesn’t doubt that she can handle herself.

 

“ _ Matt _ .”

 

Red freezes, lets his arms drop a bit. They know each other, really know each other. Not just the masks.

 

“We need to  _ talk.” _

 

Red shivers like someone just walked over his grave, straightens up, “...Jen? Wh-what are you doing here?”

 

“I’m  _ protecting  _ the city, Matthew.”

 

Her voice is cold, restrained. Doesn’t match the rest of her at all.

 

“Let me,” Bullseye leans in close, whispers to Red as soft as he can; if he has the okay, he can get them out of this scrap.

 

“ _ No _ ,” Red hisses, “You can’t.”

 

“I really thought you’d be here with me, Matt. You, of all people, should know that it’s  _ damn  _ hard to pull one over on me.”

 

“I’m not--I mean, I didn’t… I wasn’t…”

 

First time he’s ever seen Matty at a loss for words, tripping over himself like he’s a little kid, just been caught red handed. Mouth gaping just slightly, looks like everything’s finally lining up, knows just what he did and just what’s coming to him.

 

“I have to put a stop to this. You’re tearing the city apart, Matt.”

 

Red swallows hard, straightens up, bit more fire in his posture, “I  _ love  _ the city. I’ve spent half a decade watching over it, keeping it safe.”

 

“And if I don’t take you in, there won’t be anything left for you to protect.”

 

“Matt,” Elektra’s turn to lean in, be the devil on his shoulder, “We are leaving.  _ Now. _ ”

 

“You can either come with me now, or  _ we  _ will be forced to take you in,” the woman, Jen, sighs, “I used to think I knew what choice you'd make, but I don't anymore.”

 

Elektra shifts on her feet like she's about to run, but Red still seems like he's caught in the moment. It feels like something he isn't allowed to do, but Bullseye wraps his hand around Red's arm and pulls hard.

 

Handsome takes the cue, breaks into a sprint. Red's still stuck but it's simple enough to pull him along, eventually his feet catch up with the rest of him. Bullseye shoots a look over his shoulder, finds her cracking her knuckles, seems to almost grow into her anger.

 

But there's almost a sadness in her voice, “So that's how it's gonna be, huh?”

 

Bullseye knows the value of running from a fight, but it stings knowing he could've got the lady if he'd had the okay.

 

But he's following Elektra, only thing he has to worry about is making sure Matty's still with them. She weaves off to an alleyway, follows it to the dead end and climbs the scaffolding to the rooftop. He doesn't have the time to be pissed off at her for ditching them, has to deal with the fact that he can't drag Matty up the face of the building.

 

“We should've gone with her,” his voice is soft and small, doesn't feel like Red, “She was right.”

 

“Fuck no, Fisk did this. Broke the rules when he went after Matt.”

 

_ You did this too, Bullseye. You broke him. _

 

“We can figure this out, Red, but first we gotta climb. 'Lektra's leaving us behind.”

 

That seems to get through to him, sets him to scaling upwards. Bullseye hangs behind for a second, keeps an eye on the entrance. Hopes Red isn't paying too much attention when someone rounds the corner and he catches them with a few stray screws. The body hits the damp concrete and he hurries up.

 

“Gotta run,” he calls out, “We’ve been found.”

 

Elektra nods, takes a running start for the next building over. She lands in a roll, doesn't bother waiting up for the two of them. He kind of nudges Matty into going, still doesn't feel right doing it.

 

After they put some distance between whoever's after them, Elektra makes another jump, lands just right on the balcony of an apartment. Bullseye watches her slide the sai from it's holster, the way her fingers curl around the hilt, the way the glass shatters when she slams the butt of it against the window.

 

She signals to him, slips right into the building.

 

“C'mon Red, just a little bit further, alright?”

 

Matty steels himself and keeps moving, lets Bullseye relax a bit because there's no way he'd be able to get Red over to the balcony on his own. He hops over last, doesn't even feel bad about it because he's important. He's the lookout. They need him to keep them out of trouble.

 

The lights are all off inside, but when he sets foot in the threshold, he gets the sense that they aren't alone. Elektra's not there, probably sweeping the place, and Red's got his head cocked to the side like he's listening for something.

 

He halfway cries out when someone catches him by the arm, muffled quickly by a hand over his mouth. Almost bites into the hand when he feels hair brush against his shoulder and cool breath against his ear.

 

“There is a…  _ problem,”  _ Elektra whispers, sends a shiver down his spine.

 

He goes pliable, docile, lets her drag him off into one of the rooms.

 

“What kind of a problem?” He keeps his voice low, conspiratorial, hopes Matty can't hear them.

 

She's stone silent, just gestures out in front of her. His eyes are still adjusting to the darkness, but he can make out the hint of light on eyes. Comes into focus as a handful of kids, smallest ones sitting in the bigger one's lap.

 

“Are you gonna kill us?” 

 

“We asked her an’ she didn't say nothin’.”

 

Oldest strokes the other two's hair, “Shh, shh, it's okay.”

 

“No. We aren't gonna kill you. The people after us will.”

 

The little ones start crying, oldest looks halfway to sobbing as well. Elektra slaps him hard across the face, feels it in his neck as much as in his cheek, fresh blood in his mouth. Turns away from the sets of eyes, rubbing at the sore spot. This one's a private conversation.

 

“They'll be fine. I was fine,” he doesn't much believe it but they're on a time crunch.

 

Elektra pinches the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger, “You murdered your father when you were a child.”

 

“Exactly,” he scowls, “It was me or him and I'm still here.”

 

“Do these children look capable of killing? Of hurting anyone?”

 

“ _ Fine.  _ If you wanna lose our head start so badly, we can let the heroes know we're here. Make sure they find the kids first.”

 

It's what Red would want, can probably hear them through the damn walls. Maybe this is a test, spur of the moment, accidental, but a test nonetheless. He leans out into the hallway, hopes they live long enough to regret this if it ends up going completely sideways.

 

“Red, we’ve got three kids in here. No sign of the parents.”

 

Matty hurries over, moves more like himself. This fits, it’s what he does, so it has to be easier than what he’s been doing so far.

 

“Are they hurt?” Red worries his lip.

 

“Nah, doesn’t look like it.”

 

The kids kind of perk their heads up, taking stock of the newcomer in the doorway.

 

“Is  _ he  _ gonna kill us?”

 

“He’s Daredevil, stupid! He’s the good guy.”

 

“The TV said he’s gone crazy and now he’s killin’ people!”

 

“See,” Bullseye laughs, “They’re fine. Problem is, whoever Fisk’s sending after us probably won’t let them live to see tomorrow. So we gotta do something, which could fuck us over in the long run.”

 

“You must ask for one of the heroes,” Elektra says, finally speaks up instead of just standing there like she’s taking it all in, “It has to be someone you know, and there can only be one of them.”

 

“And we don’t give ‘em the kids otherwise,” Bullseye agrees.

 

“You’re talking about using them as hostages,” Red looks livid, lips pulled back in a snarl.

 

“We’re giving up our head start doing this, Red. Don’t stand a chance if more than one comes for the kids.”

 

“Alright.”

 

Red scowls, turns out of the room right quick. Probably isn’t too keen on doing things their way, but there isn’t any alternative. With Red gone, they’re both just standing around gawking at the kids. Looks like he has to step up again, so he pops his knuckles, takes the lead.

 

“Okay, let’s get the kids ready. Won’t have much time after someone shows up.”

 

He scoops one of the little ones up. Can't run that way and the others won't be keen on leaving them behind.

 

“What are you  _ doing  _ to her?” Oldest sounds downright frantic.

 

“Easy, kid,” he shifts around, gets a better grip on the little one, “Just holdin’ onto her while you two get ready.”

 

Elektra shoots him a look, says she knows the gig. They're playing ransom. He's got the insurance policy and she's making sure nobody tries any funny business.

 

The kid is heavy, but keeping a hold on her gives him something to do with his hands. The other two stay pretty quiet as they get some things in a little bag, oldest puts a coat on the other little one. He doesn't mind kids all that much, way he looks at it, they've never done nothing wrong. But if the money's good enough, he might just take the job.

 

Elektra looks like she has a handle on things, so he turns to go get an ETA from Matty.

 

Oldest freezes in place, face all twisted up in agony, “No, where are you going with her?! Stop!”

 

“I'm not gonna hurt her. Don't kill anyone for free, so unless you wanna cough up your allowance to get lil’ sis out of your hair, she'll still be breathing when Handsome here brings you out to the balcony.”

 

Elektra scowls at him, but doesn't stop him from slipping out to the living room. He sidles up to Red, standing at the threshold to the balcony.

 

“It’s not someone I know,” Red says, sounds tired, “But I’ve heard good things about her, from people I trust.”

 

It doesn’t matter much, either way. They’re still losing their head start.

 

The silence lingers for a while, doesn’t last long before Red adds, “Are you holding one of the kids? If you hurt  _ any  _ of them, I  _ swear _ \--”

 

“He said he wasn’t gonna kill me unless someone paid him to.”

 

The sound Red makes says he doesn’t find that all too comforting at all. But it’s better than having to explain that the kid’s the insurance policy, wouldn’t do anything to dissuade Red from thinking this is a hostage situation.

 

“That was a  _ joke,”  _ he huffs, “Just keepin’ a hold on her while the others get ready. When’s our lucky lady gonna get here?”

 

“She’s a few minutes out, I think. She said she wanted to make sure there wasn’t anyone waiting for the kids.”

 

The little one starts squirming around again, makes him readjust how he’s holding her a second time. He twists until he’s looking over his shoulder, doesn’t find anything save for Elektra and the kids. Oldest is already holding the other little one, neither look too calm or collected but that’s a side effect of spending time with Handsome.

 

You’d be hard pressed to miss the connection. Almost lets his jaw go slack when she flies,  _ actually flies,  _ up to the balcony, hovers right in front of them with a dangerous look in her eyes.

 

She shoots him a smug look, like she knows he’s halfway to dumbfounded. Gives a little salute where she stands in the air.

 

“Name’s Monica. I’m here for the kids.”

 

Finally manages to collect himself, scowls as he speaks, “ _ Just  _ the kids.”

 

“As soon as they’re safe, nothing on Earth is gonna stop me from taking you three in.”

 

“Cocky one, aren’t you?”

 

“ _ Bullseye,”  _ Red warns, always seems to be warning him about something.

 

He rolls his eyes, scoffs, but it’s business, “Oldest, you and the little one go first.”

 

Elektra takes the cue, nudges them towards the balcony. Monica moves in, scoops up both of them, even the oldest, like they don’t weigh anything at all. But now she’s got both hands full, probably will drop them off with the rest of the heroes. Gives them a chance to see how fucked they are, how many are surrounding them.

 

She stays there a second, like she can’t decide if she trusts them enough to leave. But she seems to think it’s worth the risk, speeds off with the two of them.

 

The little one in his arms sets to caterwauling, tears streaming down her face now that the others are gone, “Don’t leave me!”

 

“Nobody left you,” he says, “You’ll be back with the rest of ‘em right quick.”

 

He mostly just wants to quiet her down, doesn’t want to draw any more attention than they’ve already got. 

 

“Hey, shhh, you’re gonna be just fine,” he croons; doesn’t do much to comfort her, but at least Monica should be back soon. 

 

He leans over to Elektra, hopes the kid’s crying makes it hard for Red to eavesdrop.

 

“Gotta be ready, make sure Matty runs,” drops his voice low.

 

“ _ When _ ?” 

 

“Signal’s gonna be easy enough to figure out.”

 

Monica loops back around, and he knows what he's gonna have to do. Matty won't be too keen on it but it's nothing that would set them at odds forever.

 

“See, nobody left you,” he says, steps out to the balcony.

 

The kid's sobs slow down and she wipes at her nose with the back of her hand. Monica pulls up and hovers right in front of him, barely even a foot away. She reaches out, eyes boring holes into him.

 

“Give me the kid.”

 

So he holds her up, close enough that Monica can almost grab her.

 

This is the fork in the road, one of the times where everything splits, paths diverge, and he can only hope they're on the right one. Usually he  _ knows  _ but he doesn't know now.

 

He thinks back to the way Matty prays, eyes closed and fervent, like a man possessed.

 

It was so desperate, and he thinks he knows how that feels, a restless caged urgency.

 

He drops the kid. Kind of hears her scream, watches Monica dive.

 

And then he steps up on the wrought iron railing of the balcony, uses it to leverage a jump across to the next building over. Elektra and Red are far behind him, but at least they're moving, so he lets his mind go blank.

 

Always easiest to run when he's not overthinking where he's going. Even if he loses them, he'll find his way back. He should be worried about getting separated, makes them easier targets, but he can't  think about much of anything right now.

 

* * *

Eventually he has to stop before his lungs give out. He can taste blood in the back of his throat and ends up dry heaving. Used to be able to run further, or maybe he still can. Doesn't really remember how long he's been going.

 

He’s out of practice and hates it. Didn’t have space for much of anything in jail. Tried to keep his strength up but his endurance is shot.

 

“What is  _ WRONG  _ with you?” Red’s in the picture now, which means Handsome isn’t far behind, “Really? What’s  _ wrong  _ with you? Because it has to be  _ something!  _ There has to be some kind of short circuit or crossed wires or  _ something  _ to make you think what you just pulled was okay.”

 

He’s already halfway on the ground, just takes it when Red barrels into him. Pins him down, and he almost tenses in anticipation but Red just keeps him there. He doesn’t want a fight, anyway, just wants his vision to stop being spotty.

 

“I thought I could get through to you, I  _ really  _ did. But there’s something so  _ broken,  _ nobody could fix it. Whatever they thought they were doing when they cut you open was  _ pointless  _ because it’s not some  _ tumor,  _ it’s just  _ you.” _

 

It stings more than he thought it would, would almost rather take Red kicking the shit out of him, but this is the role he has to play. He can stay if he’ll do the things even Elektra couldn’t get away with.

 

“Wouldn’t’a killed her,” his voice is hoarse, barely even there, “Not from that height.”

 

Red goes stock still, opens and shuts his mouth a time or two like a fish out of water.

 

“It was a wager, Red. Put all my money on her goin’ after the kid.”

 

It’s shock, that’s what’s plastered all over Red’s face. If things were different, if he wasn’t so tired, didn’t hurt so much, didn’t want to stay on Red’s good side, he’d say something like ‘I don’t kill for free.’

 

But he keeps his mouth shut, just lets Red connect the dots while he’s trapped underneath him. Gives him time to catch his breath.

 

“You had your ‘talk’,” Elektra comes into view behind Red, “We need to keep moving.”

 

“Gimme a sec, I’m outta practice,” he says; it’s an understatement, hasn’t had a chance to practice right and proper in a long while.

 

He doesn’t get an answer, just sees her tense up like she’s going on the defense. The sais come out and Matty follows in suit, doesn’t get up but shifts like he’s getting ready to. Bullseye tilts his head back, far as he can; watches a pair of boots walk across the upside down world.

 

“Get away from him.”

 

He doesn’t recognize the voice, assumes it’s attached to the boots.

 

“I won’t let you take him,” Boots adds.

 

None of this makes sense, feels like there’s been a serious misunderstanding, so he says, “Settle down, they’re with me.”

 

Then he twists out from under Red, forces himself to sit up and set the situation back to rights. But he doesn’t even recognize the man in front of them.

 

“Who the fuck are you?”

 

Boots gives him a look, brows furrowed, like Bullseye’s supposed to know him.

 

“You’re  _ Bullseye,”  _ Boots doesn’t offer anything more than that.

 

“Yeah, and?”

 

“Everyone’s been looking for you, we need  _ help.  _ You were just gone, didn’t even leave us with instructions for phase two.”

 

He blinks once, twice, “Phase  _ what?” _

 

“You had to have  _ something _ planned,” Boots sounds more urgent, “The Kingpin is hunting you down, he doesn’t have many on his side but he’s grabbing everyone he can and giving them a choice: tell him where you are or die. People are swapping sides just  _ hoping  _ he won’t kill ‘em.”

 

Red grabs him by the shoulder, nails digging into the skin above his clavicle, “What is this man talking about?”

 

“Fuck if I know.”

 

“But,” Boots doesn’t have any fight behind his words, “But Kingpin’s slaughtering us. This was  _ your  _ idea. Please, you have to have something.”

 

He hasn’t exactly forgotten the war, well, hasn’t forgotten it a second time, but it doesn’t feel all that urgent. Figured it would sort itself out once he lit the fuse.

 

“Kingpin’s killing us in the streets and people are saying the Hand’s planning on moving in while he’s dealing with us. Nobody wants to work for him anymore, but we need your plan.”

 

“ _ Leave, _ ” Elektra’s voice is ice cold, saves him the trouble of having to explain that there isn’t a plan.

 

Boots doesn’t move, just goes glassy eyed.

 

“Go!” She snarls, “Go lick your wounds elsewhere! You placed your faith in an incompetent idiot and expect sympathy? Death would be a  _ mercy  _ to you!”

 

“There’s no plan,” Bullseye says, gets to his feet, “There’s no  _ fucking plan _ ! Never has been! Only goal was to piss Fisk off and that’s over and done with! I don’t care what he’s doing now! That’s your problem.”

 

“You’re gonna get us all killed,” Boots is smiling, looks half deranged, looks like a man who’s made his peace.

 

He leans backwards, nice and easy. Sure as hell doesn’t look concerned when his feet leave the rooftop, but Bullseye figures that won’t last for long. Never does. The crunch of concrete on flesh on bone is loud enough to make him wince, must be worse for Matty, the way his face is twisted up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you guys have anything to say, i always love getting comments and i'm always up for answering any questions you have about the fic!!


	19. keep your friends real close and your enemies closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> title comes from the song 'young, dumb, and full of it' by adam ant.

Elektra looks like she’s holding back tears, which doesn’t fit any part of her he’s ever seen. Still looks angry, absolutely and primally pissed. And he’s still thinking about Boots, about how they figure he’s in charge of this.

 

It can’t be real, he’s gotta be overdosing on whatever Fisk gave him, back in the penthouse. 

 

“Why didn’t you stop him?” Red says, breaks the silence first, “Why didn’t either of you stop him?”

 

Elektra brushes him off, voice hollow, “I have to meet with the Hand.”

 

* * *

He doesn't remember most of the trip to get there, just follows Elektra mindlessly. Looks like Red's in the same boat as he is. It's on the side of town he tends to shy away from, never gets any good jobs over there.

 

“Who the fuck are these guys anyway?”

 

Elektra sets her jaw, anguish in her eyes, “Wait here. They will let me in, but this  _ will  _ end in a fight.”

 

Red snaps out of it long enough to reach out for her, she closes the gap, takes his hands in her own.

 

“Be careful, Elektra,  _ please.” _

 

She breaks away, just leaves him hanging without a word. Pushes the front door open and marches in, hands on the handles of her sais. The door slams shut behind her, makes him damn near jump out of his skin. He doesn't  _ want _ to wait, might not be able to get in another fight if he doesn't keep up the momentum. But Matty unclips the rosary from his belt and sits on the sidewalk, cross-legged, rolling the beads between his fingers.

 

“They did something to her. I don't know what. She won't talk about it, but she was barely even  _ there _ when I found her again.”

 

He shifts his weight from foot to foot, can't let himself stop. He hasn't gotten this lost in something before, but there's a first for everything. The only other possibility is that all of this is happening and that's almost worse.

 

“Matty, I don't know if I can do this.”

 

Red looks tired, too, doesn't say anything but Bullseye can't abide by quiet.

 

“I think I made a mistake. Can't even remember half of what I did but I guess it's my fucking problem now,” he surrenders, takes a seat next to Red, palms digging into his eyes, “I don't know if this is  _ happening.  _ In case you haven't heard, I'm not exactly playing with a full deck.”

 

Red was right, it wasn't the fucking tumor, it's always been him.

 

“Why didn't you stop that man?” Red's voice is thin, thready, doesn’t even sound like he’s been listening.

 

“I don't  _ know.  _ I didn't think he was gonna do that,” he drags his hands down his face, “And I don't know if we're even gonna make it out of this one. Fucking hate not knowing where we're headed.”

 

He's giving up, admitting it instead of keeping up the bluff. Can't stand the stillness so he bounces his leg, rakes his nails across his scalp, over and over and over. Can't exactly run, can't exactly scream. And Red expects him to help Elektra when this all goes sideways, which he will because there's not much else going for him right now.

 

Somewhere along the way, he ends up with his fingers in his mouth, clicking the nail against his teeth between biting at the nail, the cuticle. It’s a bad habit, one he doesn’t remember picking up but it must’ve come before the smokes. The gloves came off a good while back, hopes he didn’t end up losing them but that’s really the least of his problems.

 

Red sucks in a sharp breath, “Can you  _ stop  _ that?”

 

Maybe he could, maybe he couldn’t. There’s nothing else to fill the space and he’s just tensing in preparation for whatever Elektra’s gonna drag them into and trying not to completely lose whatever weak grip on reality he still has.

 

“Okay, fine, don’t say anything,” Red huffs, lips pulled back in a snarl.

 

Everything settles back into quiet, but Red barely makes it a minute before he holds out the rosary. Leaves it dangling right in front of Bullseye, knuckles white from how tight Red’s holding it.

 

“Take it. Just take it. I’m begging you to do  _ anything  _ that doesn’t make me want to smack you upside the head.”

 

He kind of looks at it, head cocked to the side, like it might be a trap, but Red doesn’t pull it away. So he hooks his fingers around the crucifix, waits to see if Red will let go. It’s warm, probably because Red’s been holding onto it for so long, and then Red lets it drop, beads swinging back and forth like a pendulum.

 

“If you lose this, I  _ swear--” _

 

He twists the beads around his palm, pulls it tight, “I won’t.”

 

“Or  _ break  _ it…”

 

“Have a little faith, will ya?” 

 

He smiles, presses his palms together and rolls the beads between them. It's something that feels real, something to focus on. Red's never given him anything before, save for a black eye or two. It's out of place, but he really wants it to fit, tucked tight in between the scene in the gym and the scene in the bed.

 

It's not a perfect moment, but it's a moment. One that's cut short by Elektra calling out.

 

“Matthew, darling, I could use some help.”

 

Bullseye twists around, cranes his neck looking up to see her leaning out of the window. Hair's as wild as it ever is but now there's blood smeared on her face. Looks like fingers dragged across her cheek.

 

“What happened?” Red calls back.

 

“They did not want to talk.”

 

And then she's gone, faded back into the fray. Matty's already getting up to go help her, so he might as well follow. 

 

Red doesn't ask for the rosary back, and he really doesn't want to let go of it. Feels like the only thing keeping him afloat. So he keeps it wrapped around his palm, curled into a fist, tight enough that he feels the beads digging into his skin. 

 

He won't lose it.

 

Red forces the door open, catches the attention of a couple of the guards inside. So much for having surprise on your side, but Elektra already kind of ruined that for them.

 

It doesn’t look like whatever’s going on upstairs has made it down to the ground floor yet. But these guys are fast, something about it sets his teeth on edge. Barely even notices the one trying to knock Red’s teeth in, but Red seems to be doing just fine. Throws up his billy club to block and drops to the ground, kicks out long across the floor and sweeps the guy’s feet right out from under him.

 

Hates himself for just gawking at it, he usually isn’t this bad off in a fight, but he’s trying to figure them out. It’ll save a lot of pain in the long run if he can learn how and where they like to hit. But he has to keep an eye out, lost track of the second one.

 

There’s something about the way they move, like he can’t always see them, just sort of feel them. Like they aren’t really there or they’re shadows, they’re reflections.

 

And it hits him, what’s been eating at him so far: they move like Elektra, but wrong.

 

One of them’s coming at him. It might be the one he lost track of, or the one on the ground, or there’s only ever been one in the room with them. It doesn’t matter much. The intent is easy to read, open book, simple message: I want you on the ground. The knives just raise the stakes a bit.

 

Can’t let the guy get close enough to graze him, but if he moves too soon, it’ll give it away. So he tenses up, hopes he isn’t too out of practice, and waits for the ninja fuck to try and gut him.

 

He knows in an instant when the perfect balance hits, right between too soon and too late. Bends backwards when the guy jabs for the place he used to be standing. Palms planted against the ground, fingers pointed towards his heels. Silently thankful that he can still feel the rosary beads digging into his hand.

 

Ninja’s probably recovered by now, gearing up for another try; if he’s lucky he’ll catch him in the head, but even still, it’ll put some distance between them. 

 

He uses the floor for leverage, springs up off the ground. Feels his boots connect with something hard, then the weightlessness of his feet over his head before gravity takes over, pulls his legs over his  head. And then his feet are back on the ground, back facing the roof this time instead. 

 

Whole thing goes smoother than expected what with being out of practice, even if his vision goes spotty when he pushes himself back up to his feet.

 

The guy’s laid out on the floor, down for real this time. Head’s snapped back, neck looks well and thoroughly broken. It was a well placed kick, makes him feel a little bit better. Right up until the guy starts to  _ melt.  _

 

Not like acid-on-skin, but more wax-museum-gone-wrong. The contours of his face slip away like there isn’t bone underneath and what little bit of his flesh is showing mixes with the cloth he’s wrapped in. Feels like ages, but it must only take a few seconds for him to be nothing more than a puddle on the floor.

 

“I… Uh…” His fist curls tight around the rosary again, “He’s  _ gone _ ?”

 

“That happens most of the time,” Red says, like it’s nothing.

 

He shakes his head, tries to snap out of it. Looks like the rest of the fight is rolling in. Red’s close, standing to his right, looks like he’s trying to even out his breathing. There won’t be much time ‘til they have to jump back in the fray.

 

The only way up to the next level seems to be the staircase, which everyone else seems to be coming down. Something about them is still fucking with his eyes, but he can tell that one of the fuckers at the foot of the stairs is gearing up to throw something.

 

He’s never tried it like this, but he doubts he’ll be wrong.

 

“Matty, lean left, your left, just a bit.”

 

“ _ Why _ ?” 

 

But Red plays along, actually does it.

 

The throwing star cuts through the air between them, barely grazes Red’s cheek. He’ll have to be more specific next time.

 

“That’s why,” he says, eyes flicking back to the crowd, seems like they don’t want to get up close and personal.

 

“Three more are coming for your neck and chest, Matty.”

 

Red ducks down, cocks his head like he’s listening for them to pass. Bullseye chances a look over his shoulder, can’t make out the blades between the chaos of the wall decorations, but Red seems alright.

 

He dodges a few himself, figures it can’t be long before someone decides they oughta start kicking the shit out of each other. The Hand fuckers are already starting to creep closer, slowly moving off of the staircase while him and Red are preoccupied.

 

“One on your right, then jump. Knife’s coming for your legs.”

 

Red follows, then drops to a crouch with the landing and slides easily into a roll. He’s bridging the gap, getting ready to stop the game of chicken and make it a real fight. Now that they’re separated, Bullseye’s gotta watch out for himself as much as he’s watching out for Matty. Makes things hard, but he’ll manage.

 

Red jumps up to his feet, already on the defensive, but Matty’s missing out on some of the important parts, seems like he’s almost getting cocky.

 

And Bullseye’s still watching, still got an eye on the crowd. Now that Red’s closer, they’re getting ballsy and there’s even less time for Red to react.

 

“Matty!” He calls out, hopes Red doesn’t turn towards his voice, “Billy club up, horizontal, eye level.  _ Now.” _

 

He doesn’t like how much chance is in it. If he’s the one dodging, he knows it’ll always be alright. Not everyone’s as good as he is. But Matty blocks right when he’s supposed to, billy club right in front of his eyes. Catches the throwing star as he’s moving into place. Wedged halfway into it, dead center, woulda been right between Red’s eyes.

 

“Someone’s coming your way,” Red says, feels like he’s repaying the favor.

 

It’s nice to have a heads up before he’s aware, stupid fucking ninja seems to seep out of the shadows but Bullseye catches him in the jaw with the rosary wrapped fist. Doesn’t even dream of breaking the chain so he can go on the offense with the beads. He’s out of his element, hasn’t had time to focus on much of anything other than keeping Matty alive and not losing the rosary.

 

He moves up to Red, figures he can do a better job of telling him when to dodge if they’re close to each other, but that’s all out the window when he sees Elektra at the top of the stairs.

 

She’s got both her sais drawn, halves the goons like butter. Some of them melt, some of them just seem to fade away, but none of them seem to bleed. Which means the blood on her skin is her own. It’ll be their little secret; Red doesn’t have to know.

 

But she’s on the fucking war path, cutting them down like it’s nothing. The anger etched across her face says it’s personal, says she’s been looking forward to this for a good while. They’re still in the middle of a fight, though. He can’t get distracted.

 

It’s bad enough that when he snaps back into reality, he realizes he hasn’t called out the latest target. Takes matters into his own hands when he wraps a hand around Matty’s arm and pulls him out of  the path.

 

“ _ Hey _ ,” Red snarls.

 

“Hey yourself. Woulda hit you in the shoulder if I didn’t pull you outta the way.”

 

“Calling directions out works just  _ fine _ .”

 

He’s letting Red have the last word, but he can’t admit that he was lost in thought.

 

Elektra’s at the foot of the staircase now. The few goons left seem to decide it’s time to take their leave, in the form of gutting themselves, snapping their own necks. Fading away with nothing left behind, not even a body.

 

He hates it. Never wants to run into these fuckers again.

 

And he’s still holding onto Red’s arm. Has to be hurting him with how tight he’s squeezing since his nails are digging into the palm of his free hand.

 

“It’s over,” Red says, voice kind of soft, “We’re the only ones here.”

 

“I still have your rosary. I didn’t lose it.”

 

It’s all he can think to say. The only thing that makes sense right about now. He barely wants to give it back but something’s stopping him from just taking it, keeping it for himself. Red’s screwing with his head, never had any issues with palming trinkets before.

 

“Thanks.”

 

“Do you want it back? Do you need it back? I have it here, I’m not  _ lying _ ,” his voice sounds frantic, kind of far away.

 

Red’s kind of shaking as his hand moves up, sets to loosening Bullseye’s fingers, still holding onto his arm. So he lets go; terrible, stiff feeling in his joints. Rolls the beads between his palms while Red and Elektra talk.

 

“That went better than expected.”

 

“It did not go well at  _ all,”  _ Elektra’s voice cracks, but she slips back into composure like a second skin, “But I do not think the Hand will try to take Fisk’s place. Not now.”

 

“The  _ fight  _ went better than expected,” Red corrects, “I’d probably be a little worse for wear if Bullseye wasn’t here.”

 

(It’s nice,  _ real  _ nice, to hear that. Might make this whole thing worth it.)

 

Elektra huffs, arms crossed, but it looks like she’s biting back tears. Marches over to Red like anger is the only thing keeping her standing, but she folds against him as soon as she’s close.

 

“It’s okay,” Red tangles his hands in her hair, working through the curls..

 

“I do not want this. I do not want to  _ feel  _ this.”

 

He shouldn’t be seeing this. He shouldn’t be here. He’s not supposed to watch this side of things. But he can’t move, even if he wanted to. Can’t do much of anything save for worrying with the rosary.

 

And then Elektra pulls away. Stiffens up, eyes glazed over. The lights are on but nobody’s home. Red lets her go, doesn’t put up a fight, not that he’d win anyway.

 

“Elektra…”

 

But she’s already gone. Here but gone, seems to be a theme.

 

Red sighs, pulls the mask off and scrubs at his eyes. Elektra strides back over to the stairs, takes a seat and starts polishing her sais. Usually, there’s some kind of care behind it, but it just looks  mindless. Same way he’s acting with the beads.

 

“There’s always something else,” Red’s quiet, not quite whispering, “I… I don’t know what the point is.”

 

And it just kind of hangs in the air. No use asking him to explain because Bullseye thinks he already gets the picture from the way Red’s holding the Devil’s mask, knuckles white from the effort.

 

“I can’t do it, I can’t protect them. There’s always someone else.”

 

If Elektra can hear him, she sure isn’t letting on. Which means it’s as good as him being alone in the room with Red. With Red, who’s shaking and sure starting to sound like someone who’s giving up. It’s wrong, not the way it’s supposed to go.

 

“I just keep trying,” he’s starting to sound frantic now, “And after everything I do, it just doesn’t matter.”

 

He’s got nothing to say that wouldn’t make it worse. Doesn’t want it to end up like Boots, bleeding out on the blacktop.

 

This is Elektra’s forte, what she’s good at. She keeps Matty calm, but evidently enough there’s no one left over to keep her calm when she’s in a bad way. She’s out of the picture, couldn’t do much of anything even if he tried to force her to. 

 

(Not that he would. He’s selfish, wants another moment even if it’s playing out like this.)

 

But he doesn’t have to say anything. He’s done this before, learned the damn trick from Elektra, whether she knows it or not. Steps closer, rests his palms on Red’s shoulders, gives him a second to pull away but he doesn’t. And then he smooths his hands along Red’s arms, rosary beads on the one palm rolling against the fabric of the suit.

 

Just like Elektra, sitting on the stairs, sais resting in her lap and tears in her eyes.

 

He doesn’t have to say anything at all.

 

Matty’s shoulders roll forwards, and he sighs, long, drawn out; sounds like he’s worn down to the bone. It’s a feeling Bullseye knows well, been running on empty for longer than he can remember.

 

It takes some time, but Matty’s muscles go slack under his hands, letting his guard down. Never would’ve thought Red would relax around him. Never in a million years. And Matty kind of bows his head, like he’s debating the pros and cons of leaning against him. It’s what he’d do with Elektra, Bullseye knows that for sure.

 

It’s perfect calm, the weightlessness after your feet leave the ground, but he doesn’t know what’s across the gap. Still can’t say anything, for fear of ruining it, and he thinks he understands Elektra, finally gets her for once. It’s almost like clarity, watching Matty with his eyes closed, trying to slow his breathing.

 

And he’s still just stroking Red’s arms, as mindless as Elektra on the stairs.

 

And Red shifts, ever so slightly, might actually up and surrender and fold against him.

 

But he doesn’t.

 

Doesn’t surrender at all.

 

Might as well have killed him because Red leans in and kisses him, all soft and gentle.

 

Can’t even stop himself from moving one hand up to Matty’s face, the one with the rosary, all but fucking mashing it against his cheek. No matter how he spins it, this doesn’t fit. 

 

Well. It doesn’t fit for Matty and Bullseye. 

 

Fits like a goddamn glove for Matty and Elektra.

 

So he pulls back, breathless. Hates himself more than he hates Handsome.

 

“You wanted it to be Elektra, didn’t you?”

 

Now that he’s spoken, all the plausible deniability is out the window. Can’t keep up the lie, can’t act like this is something Red would do.

 

“No, I--”

 

But Red swallows his words, can’t finish the thought because if he wasn’t hoping for Elektra, then he’s broken his own obsessive little code.

 

“It’s alright Matty,” he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, “She’ll take it out on me, not you.”


	20. and if the devil is six, then god is seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> title comes from 'monkey gone to heaven' by the pixies

“We need to keep moving,” Red speaks up, finally, seems like ages of awkward silence.

 

So that’s how it’s gonna be. Payback for all the secrets between Elektra and Bullseye.

 

He’s still standing, still breathing, still  _ alive,  _ so it’s safe to say she was too out of it to see any of that happen. He won’t say anything, knows damn well to keep his mouth shut unless he’s feeling particularly self destructive. Only hopes Red has enough sense to do the same.

 

“Let me deal with Elektra.”

 

He says it like Bullseye would’ve gone anywhere near her, like she’d want him to try and talk her out of the stupor she’s in.

 

“I know you think she’s a good person somewhere deep down inside, and maybe she is, but if she finds out about this, especially now…”

 

_ She might actually kill me this time. _ He doesn’t even have to finish the thought, Red gets the picture just fine. Kind of nods before he makes his way over to Elektra.

 

There’s a gnawing weight in the pit of his stomach, taste of bile in the back of his throat. It’s not just the possibility of Elektra attacking him, he figures Red won’t let her kill him no matter what. No, it’s something else. Something terrible and suffocating.

 

Not heartbreak, he’s not some stupid lovesick schoolgirl, never had any illusions as to what this was. Never thought Red would want anything to do with him; as soon as this mess was all cleared up, he’d be out on his own again.

 

It’s more like hate. 

 

Red’s kneeling on the stairs, close to her but not touching her. Whatever he’s saying to her seems to be working, can’t make out any of the words but she’s stopped polishing the sais. Makes his fucking blood boil, hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms. Red didn’t even ask for the rosary back. Got exactly what he wanted and a little bit extra.

 

Doesn’t count, not really. He was just a warm body while Elektra was out of commission, easy enough to pretend it’s her when he doesn’t talk.

 

He knew it was always gonna be her. Didn’t even care as long as he was in their orbit a while. Hates her because she’s the  _ one _ , hates himself because he’d learn her inside and out just to get a chance for it to happen again.

 

He oughta just leave, but he doesn’t think he can. Doesn’t have anywhere left to go. So he’ll take what he can get, stick around a little while longer.

 

“We gotta find another place to hole up, get our shit together, lick our wounds,” he gets a kind of satisfaction from interrupting.

 

“I  _ know, _ ” Red sounds pissed off,  _ good,  _ “Can we take this one  _ problem  _ at a time?”

 

Bullseye just crosses his arms, leans back against the wall. It’s always on him, gotta find a place, gotta break in, gotta do whatever he has to so Matty can keep his hands clean. Didn’t mind it much at first, probably still doesn’t mind it now. Means he has leverage.

 

“No. You gotta tell me, right here, right now. What are we doing next?”

 

“We’re finding somewhere to spend the night.”

 

“You mean  _ I’m  _ finding somewhere to spend the night,” Bullseye scowls, “And after that? National Guard’s coming, Matty. All bets are gonna be off.”

 

Red tenses up at that, looks like something’s finally sinking in.

 

“We can’t let Fisk hurt anyone else.”

 

It’s broad, vague, probably not even close to realistic, but he’s finally needling Red into thinking a few steps ahead.

 

“Uh-huh, and how are we gonna do that?” Bullseye’s got an idea or two, doesn’t think Matty will take any of them.

 

Red purses his lips, takes a seat next to Elektra instead of staying kneeling, “We turn him over.”

 

“To  _ who?”  _ He laughs, sound bounces off the damn ceiling, fills the fucking room, “You’re lucky if there’s an NYPD  _ left!  _ And the Guard? No way, they’re only after us. Just wanna contain the situation. Fisk keeps his nose clean, they aren’t gonna listen to us. He’s livin’ the American fuckin’ dream! We’re the bad guys in this one, Red.”

 

“We  _ can’t  _ let him keep doing this!” Red’s halfway to yelling, finally getting a rise out of him.

 

“You heard Boots, he’s already killin’ people tryin’ to get to us. What makes you think he won’t go after the guard, huh? Can’t pay  _ those guys  _ off. Not like the pigs.”

 

Red doesn’t answer that one, but his lips curl back in a snarl.

 

“More blood on your hands, Red. Doesn’t bother me, doesn’t bother Elektra, so you’re the one who’s gotta carry it all.”

 

“So it’s  _ my  _ job? My  _ responsibility _ ?”

 

Bullseye kind of furrows his brows, didn’t expect that, but he can work with it, “Yeah. Isn’t that your whole schtick? Isn’t that who the Devil is?”

 

“Well if  _ you  _ think it’s up to us,” Red’s seething, practically spits the words, “That means we have to--”

 

Stops dead in his tracks, but Bullseye thinks he’s right where he wanted him to be.

 

“ _ Yeah _ ?” He asks, tries to coax it out of him.

 

Matty rests his head in his hands, blank eyes looking out between his fingers, “That means we have to  _ make sure  _ he can’t hurt anyone ever again.”

 

Bullseye smiles, almost dead center but Matty can’t bring himself to say it, which isn’t his fault so he’s still counting it as a hit.

 

“You mean ‘kill him’. We gotta kill him.”

 

“I… I guess so,” Red says, sounds like defeat.

 

“ _ You  _ will not have to kill anyone, Matt,” Elektra’s quiet, almost sounds like she’s faraway, but she’s back here enough to know what’s going on, “I would never ask you to.”

 

The fact that he's not laid out on the floor, choking on his own blood says she doesn't know about the kiss. She'll probably find out eventually, but he's hoping she'll be less liable to kill him then.

 

Matty's back to being the doting boyfriend, helps Elektra up off the stairs, holding onto her as tight as he can.

 

“Elektra, I can't even describe it, it's like you weren't even there, you were crying, I could  _ hear _ it, but your heart was steady.”

 

So he was paying attention to her,  _ only  _ her. Always the bridesmaid and never the bride.

 

“We can discuss this later,” Elektra says, lips pursed, “Right now, we must  _ leave.” _

 

“I told him that,” he cuts in.

 

Red's voice gets serious, stern, “I need to know you're okay, first.”

 

Bullseye almost has to laugh, perfect mirror of what he just did earlier. Maybe they're the same after all, two parts that fit together just right.

 

“I can do whatever I have to.”

 

It's not the same thing but Matty takes it as an answer anyway.

 

* * *

Things feel better outside, like the building itself was fucking with them, but that's a dangerous road for him to head down. Hell, he's still trying to wrap his mind around the goons melting away when they died. But he's got something new to keep his mind preoccupied, gotta find a place for them to hole up in.

 

It's too much of a risk to stay in an apartment building, learned his lesson with the kids. He never misses the mark, but Boots got him thinking. Their lucky lady seemed fast, probably caught the little one.

 

But the businesses, the offices, probably evacuated right off the bat. They'll be empty and maybe he can palm some shit to use in a fight. Won't have to hang around Matty for the whole fight. It worked well, but he can't do that again.

 

They're a few blocks out when Elektra grabs him by the arm, gets him thinking they're under attack right up until she twists it behind his back. Damn near dislocates it.

 

“Why do you have Matt's rosary?” She hisses, voice sharp as her sais.

 

He doesn't have a story, nothing she'd like to hear.

 

“Talk!” She twists his arm further, nails digging into his other shoulder for leverage, “I know that is  _ all  _ you like to do! Did you  _ take  _ it?”

 

“No, I--he--”

 

“I gave it to him,” Red’s quiet, almost reluctant to admit it.

 

Elektra doesn't let go but all the effort melts away from her actions, makes it so it doesn't hurt as much.

 

“You  _ did? _ ”

 

He figures a lawyer like Matty won't say anything that would get him killed. Knows how to spin words just right.

 

“He wouldn't stop chewing on his nails. It was better than that.”

 

“And you let him  _ keep  _ it?” She sounds disgusted, like she can’t even fathom it.

 

“Yes.”

 

Red’s lying through his teeth, has to be. Didn’t take it back because he couldn’t stomach asking Bullseye for it. But it’s kind of a cold comfort; Red’s holding out on getting Elektra to absolve him, forgive him for his trespass; means she won’t be out for blood quite yet.

 

It’s only a matter of time, though, and Bullseye’s stupid for not getting out now, before she’s got the chance to rain hellfire down upon him. Matty’s a good little Catholic boy, bound to end up fessin’ up to her sooner rather than later and then it’ll all be over. Two people can only keep a secret if one of them’s dead, and all that.

 

He knows she’d do it, too. Figures he’s already lasted longer than expected, it’s been a good run.

 

“You should not have given him that,” Elektra lets go of his arm, keeps her nails digging into his shoulder, “You should not give him  _ anything _ ! You should not forget who he is!”

 

“Tried to give it back,” Bullseye pleads, under his breath.

 

“You are  _ trusting  _ him! He did this! He destroyed  _ everything  _ we had! He is  _ going  _ to destroy you!”

 

He bites his tongue, hard enough to taste blood.  _ Might’ve already done that. _

 

“We don't exact have a lot of options for allies these days, we need him for now.”

 

Elektra almost growls under her breath, folds her arms; not defeat but a stalemate. He knows it's not about the rosary, not really. It's just about him.

 

But he's got a role to play so he drops his voice low, serious, “If you're done with your lovers’ spat, we need to get the hell outta dodge. Got no cover out here and half the city's after us.”

 

Elektra scowls, teeth clenched so hard he's surprised they haven't cracked yet. But she marches on, knows he's right. Might've made him feel good a few days back, but now he's just tired.

 

* * *

He makes sure they put some good distance from the Hand's headquarters, makes him feel better the further they've gone. He'd prefer a place with a bed, already slept on enough floors to last a lifetime, but it really seems like an office building is the best bet. So he keeps an eye out for a good one, multiple exits, lots of windows, looks empty.

 

When he settles on one, he finds that the doors aren't even locked. Makes his job easier but something about it sets him on edge. Feels wrong, same way the empty streets do.

 

He didn't mean for this, not really, but he doubts anyone will listen. Never been much of a mover and shaker.

 

“Looks like it's been evacuated but don't get too comfortable. Could be anyone in here.”

 

Red makes a noise of affirmation, splits off on his own but stays in the lobby. It's not the same layout as Fisk's building, but it still sets Bullseye's teeth on edge. Pictures the suits laid out on the tile as he hops the secretary's desk.

 

Thumbs through the directory of employees, the map of the building. He figures he's the same as Red after all, searching for something like a sign, just a mite more concrete than whatever Red's looking for.

 

There's a lounge up on one of the executive floors, might have somewhere to sleep. Too high up to jump down from, but there might be another building close enough to reach. The thing that settles it is when he checks the directory: floor 72, room 19. Really oughta start believing in coincidences before he gets himself killed.

 

Now that he's got a plan, he sets to tearing apart the rest of the front desk. Pockets a few sets of business cards, nice stiff cardstock, cuts like a bitch. Pulls out all the drawers and finds a letter opener,  solid metal, heavy, blunter than a knife but that just means it'll hurt.

 

“There's a lounge upstairs,” he calls out, “Gonna have to hoof it up seventy two floors if the elevator isn't workin’, mind you.”

 

Red nods, as good as a go ahead to try it out, so he heads over and hits the button. Looks like the power's still running to the elevator and he's quietly thankful that he doesn't have to walk all the way up with bruised ribs and yet another concussion.

 

“We're in luck.”

 

It takes a while to get down, must've been up near the top floor. Finally settles down in the lobby and stalls a second before the doors slide open.

 

And then the body falls out. Hits the linoleum with a kind of hollow thud, eyes rolled back in its head. White and waxy save for the blood on the forehead.

 

He jumps, half steps back. Didn't think the fight got here. Shoots a look over his shoulder but Handsome and Red look downright nonplussed, Ike they didn't hear anything.

 

“What is it?” Red shifts into the offensive, ready for a scrap.

 

He turns back, feels like he's breathing but he can't get any air, drowning on dry land. The body's gone, probably wasn't even there in the first place. He really only saw part of it, superimposed over the floor. Just the eyes. Paper cutout pasted over reality.

 

“Uh,” he hates that he's shaking, “Looks like I'm hallucinating again.”

 

Red's voice isn't quiet, just sounds like it's miles away, “I thought they took the tumor out.”

 

Can't stop himself from throwing his head back, laughing and laughing. Better that than crying.

 

“Yeah, stopped me from  _ dying.  _ Cut them back a mite too, or made it easier to know when nothing's really there. But it didn't change jack shit. I'm damaged goods, Red.”

 

Red purses his lips, looks like he's rolling it around in his mind.

 

“If you are not competent or aware, I will  _ not  _ let you get us killed,” Elektra states, even and severe.

 

“You're one to talk. I'm not the one that went fuckin’ catatonic.”

 

“Can you two  _ stop?” _

 

He's about to snap at Red, but the elevator door slides shut, kind of puts things in perspective. So he hits the button again, waits for it to open back up.

 

Red's feeling guilty, he figures, the bickering reminds him too much of the situation. But they all filter into the elevator, don't say much of anything. Elektra grits her teeth, arms folded tight. Red just clutches the billy clubs like they're a fucking lifeline. The ride drags on for ages, but then they're finally at the floor.

 

He steps out, almost tentatively, and drops his voice low, “Anyone here, Red?”

 

“I don't think so, I can't hear much of anything here.”

 

It's a good enough answer, so he starts looking for the lounge. The layout is simple enough, but he's making damn sure they're alone, opening up the doors to each room. It helps, having something to do. Helps quiet the angry, restless buzz in his hands.

 

They'll be in another fight in no time. He's just gotta keep it together until then. Gotta wait until he can finally clear his head. He gets restless, gets stupid between jobs.

 

If she was anyone else, he'd tell Handsome. Goad her into a fight and let her do the dirty work for him. But he's only in it for a few minutes of undivided attention, just eats it up, which means he's not too keen on getting himself killed. Just wants a little one on one, even if it tastes like blood.

 

Finally gets to the lounge, and he calls over Red and Elektra. It's not a bad place to spend a night, couple of couches clustered around a little table. Probably got some food in the fridge, maybe some  coffee in one of the cabinets.

 

Elektra sits first. Lays her sais out on the table, careful and deliberate like. And then she crosses her legs, looks him over with a dark glare like she's waiting for something. Red sits near her, on the other couch. Not next to her, which says  _ something. _

 

(He wasn't expecting a girlfriend back at the start of all this. Figured he'd be the only thing on Red's mind as long as he was out on the streets.)

 

He sits on the floor, cross-legged and kind of draped over the table in the hopes he can take some of the tension off his back without laying on his bruised ribs. It's cool against him, even through the suit, which worries him a bit since he doesn't usually run too warm.

 

“So we all agree, Fisk's gotta die, right?” He speaks halfway into the table, doesn't much want to lift his head.

 

“We have to stop this before it gets worse,” Red sighs, exhausted and resigned.

 

“It’s gonna be a bloodbath when the guard gets here no matter how you slice it, but with Fisk out of the equation, everyone else might settle down a hair. After all, he’s the one who’s setting everyone after us.”

 

Elektra nods, lips drawn to a thin line, “He is furious. It is a point of weakness to allow emotion to consume you. One which we will exploit.”

 

“There’s no guarantee he’s even still here,” Red says, drags his hands down his face, “Or that we could even get to him.”

 

“He will be in his building,” Elektra says, like it’s the most logical thing in the world.

 

“You sure about that?”

 

“He is a stupid, prideful man. He only wants to watch, he does not want to act, so he pays others to act for him.”

 

“If you aren’t forgetting, Handsome, we were two of those people up until a few days ago.”

 

She scowls, nose wrinkled, hint of her teeth beneath her curled lip. Can’t imagine what it must be like to have a whole ‘honor’ or ‘protector’ schtick. He’s a simple man, in it for a paycheck. Doesn’t really matter who’s blood money it is as long as he’s got food on the table and something left over for some fun.

 

Red puts his hand up, looks damn near close to a referee but the message is clear: stop fighting.

 

“Alright,” Red starts, “Let’s say we get to his building, even with half the city after us. Let’s even say he’s in there, just watching the world burn. Who’s going to just stand by and let us do  _ this? _ ”

 

“Nobody’s too keen on him running the show, trust me. He’s a big name but most of the time he’ll just treat you like shit.”

 

Elektra’s eyes flick over to him, says she knows he’s speaking from experience. He’s trying to be persuasive, make sure Red doesn’t chicken out, but truth be told, he doesn’t know if Fisk gives the rest of ‘em the same kind of treatment. He might just be the exception.

 

Red seems to accept it, though. But it’s Bullseye’s job to keep everyone thinking realistically, as fucking laughable as that sounds.

 

“We gotta be careful, can’t take another big fight  _ and  _ keep up the momentum to go toe to toe with Fisk.”

 

“ _ We  _ will  _ not  _ be going ‘toe to toe’ with Fisk,” Elektra’s voice is firm, says the decision’s final already, “You and Matt will clear the way and offer cover. I will kill him.”

 

Red kind of tenses, didn’t seem to be expecting it from her. Hasn’t even worked up the nerve to say it himself, still just keeps dancing around it. It’s interesting, lines up with what Bullseye knows of Red but he sure didn’t think a vigilante would bat an eye at killing someone for ‘the greater good’, or whatever it is that helps them sleep at night.

 

Maybe one day he’ll tell Red that there isn’t a greater good. Some people just need to die in order to save your own skin. Nothing more than that. It’s selfish, no matter how you look at it. 

 

“You don’t have to, Elektra--”

 

“Trust me, Red, she  _ wants  _ to,” he drops his voice nice and low, cheshire cat smile curling across his face.

 

Elektra looks like she wants to smash his head through the table, but she contains herself, damn near bites through her lip. He’s not wrong, hit a tender spot, which just makes him smile again because  he figured there weren’t any of those left.

 

She’s doing the dirty work because she wants revenge, not out of some kind of selfless sacrifice. Like he said, it’s selfish.


	21. playing solitaire til dawn with a deck of fifty one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> title comes from 'flowers on the wall' by nancy sinatra
> 
> cw for brief, non graphic mentions of self harm at the beginning

They settle on moving out the next morning. Not as thoroughly prepared as he usually likes to be when the target might actually pose a threat, but the time frame they have is hazy. He doesn’t doubt that Elektra could take anything Fisk throws at her, seems to run on pure fury when she sets her mind to it.

 

Didn’t even know how badly she was hurt until she starts unwrapping the silk of her costume. She seemed downright unstoppable, barely even showed in her movements, but sure enough, there’s a gash along her side.

 

It feels good knowing she’s worse off than he is, gives him some kind of satisfaction. But they’re all sort of counting on her, so he can’t even get too much out of it.

 

“Get me the stapler,” she’s not asking, just telling him to fucking do it.

 

“Those kinda staples aren’t gonna work for putting yourself back together.”

 

“And what would  _ you  _ know about that?”

 

He kind of laughs, but not really, “More than you’d think. What you oughta get is superglue. Actually makes sure the cut doesn’t split back open.”

 

Granted, he’s never tried supergluing one  _ that  _ big closed, but he figures it’s about the same logic.

 

“Fine,” she huffs, “Get me the superglue.”

 

The look on Red’s face almost makes it worth getting up after how long it took for him to get comfortable.  _ Almost. _

 

He doesn’t want to piss her off, though, so he stands up, makes a show out of groaning before he starts digging through the drawers.

 

“Elektra, it’s still bleeding fresh,” Red warns, voice low and severe.

 

She’s lucky there’s some in the lounge, really didn’t want to go tear apart the whole damn floor just to keep her happy.

 

He tosses the tube over to her, “Won’t be for long.”

 

And she catches it, plucks it out of the air between two careful fingers in a way that almost looks dainty. Like someone important might see it. Seems like something she was trained into, which puts a lot of the pieces together. She sets the scarf aside, carefully, doesn't want any blood on it. Then she clenches her teeth, skin pulled taut over her jawbone.

 

Figures she'd take it the wrong way if he told her not to glue her fingers to the cut. Scared the shit out of him the first time he did it, but he refuses to let her know he's speaking from experience.

 

Again, he feels like he's intruding, watching her glue the cut closed bit by bit. Won't heal pretty, he knows that from the puckered, ugly tracks on his skin. But he doesn't think she'll care much; she's got scars everywhere but her face, various degrees of faded. Explains why she always wears the gloves, the tights, when she's in her civvies.

 

(Some of them look self inflicted, makes some of his own itch real bad, but when it comes down to it, aren't they all?)

 

He wonders if she remembers where they all came from, can't imagine what that'd be like. God knows he'll barely remember jumping through the window in a few months, maybe a year if he's lucky. And by then, there'll be some new injuries to worry about.

 

His thoughts end up wandering to the million dollar question: does Matty look the same as them under his suit?

 

With Elektra, he knows it's not intimacy, she just doesn't care, but Matty seems shy. Modest little Catholic boy who won't let anyone look at him on the off chance it might be too close to pride or vanity or something like that. But he bets Red's got scars too, has to.

 

“You good, Red?” He's being selfish again, trying to pull him out of the Devil’s mindset, “Been awful quiet.”

 

“Well forgive me for being put off by the sound of my girlfriend  _ gluing herself back together _ ,” Red snaps.

 

He should've done a better job when he tried to kill her.

 

Can't do it now or he'll lose everything. 

 

(But he gets the feeling he's already losing himself.)

 

He stops thinking, cocks his head to the side and focuses on the barely there electrical whine that seems to have started. Matty would've told them if someone came in, but maybe it's someone he can't sense, or some kind of bomb, or he's just hallucinating again. He needs to get his mind clear, steady, before he gets them all killed.

 

And then the lights click off. Makes his whole body tense, heart beating out of his chest.

 

He can barely manage a whisper, “What is it, Red?”

 

“There aren't any people here, or nearby.”

 

“You can tell there's no one in the whole fucking floor?” He can't help but ask, sounds too unreal to be true.

 

“Everything's so quiet, Bullseye. I can't hear anyone in the  _ building. _ ”

 

So the most likely option is that the building's lights are on a timer. Doesn't make it easy for him to settle down but he finds his way back to the couches in the damn near suffocating darkness. It's  something to do with his knack for trajectories, seems like he can memorize where everything is without even thinking about it.

 

(It's not a fucking ‘power’. Not like the lady who can fly or the fucking melting ninjas. Can't be. It's a knack, it's something he's good at, it's something that's real and can happen. It makes sense. It fits into the world and isn’t some crazy fucking delusion that’s eating him up inside. It’s just him. It’s normal and regular and safe and--)

 

“Calm down,” Red whispers, all but drags him out of his thoughts.

 

He figured he was calm already, but Red’s right. Wasn’t calm, just distracted. Heart’s still trying to beat out of his damn chest and he sets to rolling the rosary beads between his palms again.

 

Red’s voice drops, gets all stern and serious, “ _ Breathe _ . Your heart rate is still erratic, you’re not breathing right.”

 

“F-fuck off,” he manages to snarl, hates to admit it, but it feels like he’s choking, “And  _ die _ .”

 

“Breathe in,” Red just keeps fucking going, won’t leave him alone, “One. Two. Three. Four. And hold it. One. Two. Three. Four. Five--”

 

“Shut  _ up!  _ Don’t need your  _ fu--”  _ has to stop, try and gulp down air, “-- _ cking  _ help.”

 

It’s a damn good thing that he can barely talk right now otherwise he’d slip up and say what he’s been thinking all night long.  _ You think I want your help after what happened? When you keep acting like it didn’t happen? _

 

He wants to break something. Maybe Handsome’s perfect smile or Matty’s pretty cheekbones or maybe his own damn hands. Might just slam his head against the wall until he’s fucking unconscious.

 

But he can’t move and he can’t remember when he ended up curled in on himself. Forehead pressed against his kneecaps and thighs flush against his stomach and arms wrapped tight around his legs. Can’t seem to loosen his grip, even though the cuts from the glass burn with the effort.

 

“Ignore him.”

 

Elektra sounds like she’s underwater or he’s underwater or a mix of both, voice curt and careless.

 

“Either he will admit he needs help or he will stop.”

 

He hates her, hates Red, hates the fucking Devil. Hates them all so much it hurts. It burns in his chest, choking him so bad he’s seeing spots.

 

Someone, Red, he thinks, hopes even, sits next to him, palms tracing over him from head to toe, just once like they’re trying to put together a silhouette of him. And then Red starts undoing his fingers, one at a time. Doesn’t fight back much, lets his hands go slack until Red tries to pry the top arm out of the vice grip on his legs.

 

He claws out at Red, then. Scream kind of caught in his throat, chopped up into little pieces like a skipping record because he’s still struggling to breathe.

 

Red catches his hand easily, pins it down against the couch so he can work on straightening out Bullseye’s legs. It’s helping, kind of, even if he hates it and that pisses him off enough that he kicks Red in the face. Not hard enough to break anything, God knows he still wants Red to let him hang around.

 

Somewhere along the way, Red gets his legs pinned down too. Held in place by fucking kneeling on them.

 

“Stop it,” he whines, “Why are you doing this?”

 

“I can’t let you go all night, wheezing and choking and stopping every now and then to make little keening noises. And you’re  _ still  _ breathing wrong.”

 

He swings out with his free hand, just ends up with that one pinned, too.

 

“Talk to me,” Red all but commands, “Talk to me until you settle down.”

 

“I hate you,” he spits.

 

There’s tears welling in his eyes, hot and angry and completely unwanted and Red just nods at him like he wants him to go on.

 

“Hate you more than anything. Hate you for saving my life. Hate you for makin’ me want to be you. Hate you for leavin’ me broken but thinking you’re the good guy. Hate you for kissin’ me like that.”

 

He fucked up. Said the one thing he wasn’t supposed to and he’s sure Handsome heard. Shuts up right quick, doesn’t want to say anything else wrong, and hopes that Elektra doesn’t feel like making him suffer too long.

 

“What did you say?” She's got a voice like cracking glass.

 

“He wanted it to be you,” his throat's scraped raw, tastes like blood.

 

“What did you  _ do  _ to him?”

 

“Nothin’, I promise.”

 

“ _ Elektra,”  _ Red warns, still pinning him down.

 

“He's still  _ yours _ .”

 

And then Red pulls back, like he's been burnt. Slides right off of Bullseye. He'd curl up again but he's too stuck in his own head to do much other than lay there.

 

“One day, I will kill you.”

 

Her voice is cool, sharp as blade, and he knows she means to make good on the threat. Only reason she isn't doing it now is ‘cos it's no fun if he can't fight back.

 

“No. No killing,” Red cuts in, dead serious.

 

In the half-light of the lounge, he can see the almost inhumane rage in her eyes, teeth digging into her lips. He should leave, but he can't.

 

“It was my choice. It wasn't a good choice, but it was mine. We need his help for now and it's not our place to decide if he needs to die.”

 

He's got the start of a migraine building behind his eyes, figures he's got a few minutes more before he all but stops being able to see. He's never been a believer, figures Matty has the whole block covered when it comes to faith, but this has to be something like hell.

 

It's nice being the center of attention, being useful, and not even having to get the shit kicked out of him, but it's not worth it. This hurts just as bad as broken bones and he doesn't even know how to  deal with it.

 

But he has to be good for tomorrow, can't fuck up any more than he already has.

 

He lets his eyes unfocus, doesn't do much with how dark it is but it's a habit at this point. Mindlessly thumbs at the rosary beads, hands still laying right where Red had pinned them. He's good at ignoring arguments, just lets it fade into background static. If he's lucky, he'll sleep off the headache, but he's been striking out as of late. Either way he'll dig through some offices and see if anyone has  any painkillers.

 

He's never been one to do something like that. Most of the pain is manageable, keeps him present in the here and now and he figures he's of no use as a professional if he ends up with a habit of popping pills. Barely even took the things prescribed to him but that's a whole nother situation.

 

When the pain gets too bad, he ends up curled in on himself again, rosary pressed against his lips. At least it sounds like the argument's stopped. He's halfway glad he didn't bother listening in on it.

 

* * *

He wakes up alone, heart in his damn throat with the possibility that he's been alone all along. But he's still got the rosary so something had to be real.

 

Maybe they left, figured he wasn't worth it. They're gonna get killed without him and he hates himself for being concerned about it.

 

He gets up slowly, doesn't want to move too fast. Ribs still hurt like a motherfucker but his head feels less like a migraine and more like a hangover. That's a start.

 

There's no point in just wandering the building looking for Red and Handsome, but he's got no other ideas. So he heads down to the lobby, figures he can start there. Doesn't know what he'd do if they really did cut him loose, but if they were attacked, he hopes he'd notice.

 

He'll take it one step at a time. See if they're in the building first before he starts getting worried.

 

They aren’t in the lobby. All the stupid fucking floor length windows let in enough sun that it makes his head hurt even more. He’s pissed off, doesn’t want to think about the possibility that he’s been left behind. So he kicks around the lobby a bit longer, tries to see if they left him a note or anything.

 

But there’s nothing, and it’s really kind of eating at him. He works  _ alone,  _ shouldn’t be getting this fucked up over it.

 

He’s still got the rosary, keeps telling himself that. Figures Red’d be back for it eventually.

 

There’s no way to feasibly search the entire building, not without wasting the whole day, which stings more than it ought to. So he’ll start easy. Go back upstairs, make some shitty coffee, dig through offices for painkillers.

 

The first step is simple. Put in the filter, measure out the coffee, add water, go.

 

Even so, he gets restless. Can’t stand the wait and the quiet and the emptiness. He’s holding onto the mug, company logo on the side, trying to figure out the best way to click the beads against the side of it. It’s cheap, but ceramic usually has a good sound to it. Feels like he’s almost in a trance while he’s watching the coffee drip into the pot, bit by bit by bit.

 

Something snaps in him and he lobs the mug at the wall. Shatters on impact and he knows where all the shrapnel lands, could pick it all back up and put it back together, if he wanted to.

 

He breaks, mostly. Because breaking is loud and makes people look and it’s easier than fixing.

 

(He doesn’t know why he still does it when there isn’t anyone around.)

 

The coffee maker clicks off. Absence of the rhythm makes him feel well and truly alone in the room. But he pours himself a cup, manages to keep a hold on the mug this time around, and heads out to the hallway.

 

It’s almost funny, in a crooked kind of way. He strolls into the office at the end of the hallway like he owns it, downs half the mug before setting it on the desk. Nice, feels like real wood, and it’s got a good couple of drawers.

 

The first two are unremarkable, nothing he cares about other than another letter opener to match the one from the lobby. The third drawer oughta match the first one but it doesn’t look quite right. Looks a mite smaller and he’s usually not bad with distances. 

 

So he pulls it off the tracks, flips it upside down, sending all the contents to the floor. Sure enough, something’s screwy. Looks like a false panel, so he tries to pry it off with the letter opener. All he ends up doing, though, is cracking the false panel in the process.

 

He’s gotta admit he’s kind of disappointed by the veritable brick of cocaine stored underneath it. That won’t do at all.

 

He doesn’t bother hiding it again, figures it’s not too much of a problem right now. Whoever put it there can deal with it whenever people start caring about office jobs and cubicles again.

 

Grabs the coffee mug on the way out, heads over to the next office. Hopefully he'll get lucky; he can fight even with a headache, can do a whole hell of a lot when he's in pain, but it's inconvenient. He got too used to being able to get meds whenever he needed them.

 

The next office is pretty empty, too. Nothing he's looking for even when he tears the damn room apart. Surely there's gotta be someone with a pill habit. He just wants to cut down on the ache behind his eyes a bit, not go total fucking space cadet. Hates numbness, not knowing, more than he'd like to admit.

 

He's not coke desperate and he's sure as hell not heroin desperate either, but that's the only other thing he manages to find.

 

Only reason he hasn't smashed the mug out of pure frustration is because he's still got coffee in it. He stomps out of the office, plans on heading for another one but on the way, he damn near walks right into Red.

 

“ _ Jesus _ , Red, thought you moved on without me.”

 

He almost looks worried, “Something broke, is there… Did you…?”

 

“Kill anyone? Nah.”

 

Red relaxes a bit at that, kind of settles down. Elektra isn't far behind, lingering at the end of the hallway, arms crossed, look in her eyes that says  _ don't fucking try anything _ . Which is beyond unfair because he didn't fucking do anything other than not shoving Red away sooner.

 

“Is there someone in there?”

 

“No,” he says, feels like he's fessing up to something he did wrong, rubs at the back of his neck with his free hand, “Broke it by accident, clumsy I guess.”

 

Elektra cuts in, “You are not clumsy.”

 

It's an accusation and he's caught red handed. Figures she knows too much about him and it makes his skin crawl.

 

“Where were you?” He drops his voice down low, knows it'll drive Handsome up the wall.

 

“We went looking for something to eat, we didn't find anything.”

 

“And you are  _ intolerable  _ to watch while sleeping,” Elektra sneers, “You are restless and disgustingly vulnerable.”

 

He's damn near desperate when he asks, “Did you find any painkillers?”

 

Red kind of furrows his brows, feels like he's looking at Bullseye funny but there's no way that's the case. There's something about the Devil's eyes, opaque and near as dark as blood, that almost seem alive.

 

“Got a headache,” he offers, feels like he's on trial, “And I haven't taken the suit off yet but I bet my ribs are bruised.”

 

“No, we didn't.”

 

“Alright,” he scowls, downs the rest of the coffee, figures he's just gonna have to tough it out, “So are we gonna do this or what?”

 

He's ready for this all to be over. Hates when a job drags on too long; the lead-up is only fun as long as everything's lining up nice and easy. He's bored, restless, needs some time between fights to recover. Bruises on top of bruises are manageable but it doesn't mean he likes them. And they're doing the hard part, gotta run point and keep Elektra covered.

 

The sooner Fisk's dead, the sooner he can fucking pass out until he can think about anything other than how beat to shit he is. Yeah, he starts fights but he gives himself enough time between them.  Hates getting up close and personal.

 

By now he's kind of figured out that life won't just fall back into the original loop again, but if he can just get close to it, it'll all be okay.

 

“We don't have much of a choice,” Red says.

 

He looks tired, even with the mask covering half his face. His shoulders are slumped forward, head almost bowed now that he knows there isn't a real threat.

 

“Figure you probably want this back,” Bullseye makes his voice soft, almost gentle, and he presses the rosary carefully into Red's hand.

 

He lingers there as long as he thinks Elektra will let him, and then he pulls back. She's livid but there's exhaustion underneath it. 

 

The cut on her side was a nasty one and he figures she's a lot worse off than she's acting. But aren’t they all? It’ll be a goddamn miracle if they make it out alive.


	22. all the children in god's kingdom bleed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter title comes from 'waste not want not' by the pretenders
> 
> i know there's already a graphic depictions of violence warning on this fic but this is one of the chapters that makes it necessary so consider this a heads up!

The streets are still empty when they head out. Almost too empty, sets his teeth on edge. The guard isn’t here yet, at least not from what he can tell, but it feels like someone should be after them. He lets Elektra and Matt go on ahead, figures he can use them as the canary in the coal mine. If they react, he knows the flickers of movement he’s seeing out of the corner of his eyes are real.

 

So far, there’s nothing, and he’s glad they’re not walking into another fight but the longer it goes on, the more it’s eating at him. It’d be better if Red did tense up, get ready for an attack, because then  it’d mean he’s reliable enough to be useful in a fight and his eyes aren’t just playing tricks on him.

 

It’s been a good while since he’s been able to enjoy quiet, calmness. Almost seems like he gets antsy when he hasn’t had the shit kicked out of him. And when he’s antsy, everything seems to get worse.

 

But they’re heading for Fisk, which is what he wants. Figures everyone’s leaving them alone unless they start going the wrong direction.

 

Doesn’t explain where all the heroes are, though, but there’s probably something keeping their hands full. More civilians to rescue, higher priority than the three of them.

 

“This is too easy,” Red sounds more disappointed than apprehensive.

 

“No, this is, uh,” Bullseye starts, pauses a second to try and put it to words, “A funnel. We’re being led.”

 

“Fisk wants us to come to him.”

 

He wasn’t expecting Elektra to back him up, last thing he figured she’d do. There’s a glint in her eye that says she’s out for blood and he’s only glad it’s not currently  _ his  _ blood.

 

“Don’t get cocky,” he drops his voice low, prepares to dodge if he’s gotta, “There’s a reason nobody’s just waltzed in and iced him before.”

 

“He is weakened and I am not just  _ anyone _ .”

 

“Alright, Handsome. Don’t go hang yourself with your pride.”

 

“Stop it,” Red growls, seems like he’s getting tired of the song and dance, “We need to do this as smoothly as we can and that means working together.”

 

“I don’t argue on the clock, Red. Been working with her for a good while now.”

 

It’s not a lie, not really. He was off the clock when he tried to kill her. He figures she could get him back by telling Matty about that, he damn near forgot she had that ace in the hole. But she keeps her mouth shut and they fall back into step. Still doesn’t like the feeling he’s getting, like the world’s about to end.

 

His heart’s in his damn throat and he hates it, hates knowing that Red can sense it or whatever the fuck he does. Can’t seem to get his nerves to settle but he can work just fine either way. It’s something about Fisk that’s setting him off, he’s not as angry as Elektra, but he’s still pretty damn pissed off. Fucked up his apartment, drugged him, and lord knows where his cat ended up.

 

(And somewhere underneath it all is something like fear. Hates to admit it but that’s probably part of why he didn’t get the hell outta dodge before everything went sideways and squirrelly as fuck.) 

 

“Okay. I'm trusting you on that, Bullseye. We only get one chance.”

 

Trusting him is a dangerous, terrible idea but there's something about the idea of  _ Red  _ trusting him that gets him nice and worked up. Like he's palming something real special and Red doesn't even know.

 

So he shuts up, gets all quiet so Red won't figure out what he stole and take it back. He'll play nice, keep playing nice as long as they'll keep him around.

 

* * *

They get to Fisk's building without so much as a hitch. The knot of dread keeps growing and gnawing at his stomach, feels like it's gonna eat right through the skin. He's got the letter openers on his hip, fingers falling down to them so he can smooth over the cold metal. It's not like he's ever truly unarmed but he feels naked without  _ something. _

 

He almost has to laugh when Red stops outside a second to pray. Seems like the last thing you'd do when you're open and exposed but he thinks he kind of understands.

 

“You are not going to kill anyone,” Elektra almost sounds soft, as close to comforting as she gets.

 

Matty leans into her hand, pressed to his cheek, “Isn't it the same thing if I  _ let  _ you kill someone?”

 

But he's pretty sure Handsome doesn't need anyone's permission for anything. It's easier to twist things around until you think it's your idea instead of hers. They're so close to being the same that it makes the kiss sting all the more.

 

“All you have to do is keep me safe, Matt, I promise.”

 

She must've been listening to Bullseye. Knows that's easy for Red because he's been trying to do that for years.

 

And then Matty slips back into prayer, soft under his breath.

 

He doesn't know why he hasn't just left yet, tries to tell himself that he'd miss out on the satisfaction of making Elektra and Red as uncomfortable and miserable as he is. But there's a reason why he's putting his neck on the line for something like this.

 

Whatever the reason, he follows them into the lobby anyway.

 

It'd almost be easier if someone was there to attack them, to snap them out of whatever daze they're in. But it's empty, save for the suits laid out on the tile. There's a lot more blood than before, thick and tacky and dark, pooled around their heads like a Byzantine halo.

 

He knows this whole situation is incredibly, catastrophically wrong, but there's something about the fact that Fisk hasn't gotten anyone to clean up the mess that really drives it home.

 

The whole room smells like rot so thick that he can't believe Red isn't saying anything. It's only been a couple of days, but he can't remember how long it took for things to get this bad when he--

 

“We need you  _ here, _ ” Elektra's words are sharp enough to get the point; here as in present, no getting lost in his own head.

 

“Are you sure he's still here? You know how he likes everything spick and span.”

 

“He will be upstairs.”

 

She speaks with all the conviction of someone who won't be able to carry on if that's not the case.

 

Elektra strides over to the elevator, quickest way to get up to Fisk's penthouse. Can’t waste time on the stairs.

 

While she's waiting for it to come, Red catches him by the arm, digs his nails into the skin through the suit.

 

“You aren't allowed to let her get hurt. Promise me.”

 

“Yeah. I promise.”

 

Red tightens his grip even more, just lucky that he's not reopening a cut, “Not good enough. I want to make sure you  _ understand. _ What are you going to do?”

 

“I won't let Elektra get hurt, God Red, I already promised.”

 

( _ You don't have to hurt me, I'll already do almost any damn thing you ask.) _

 

When the elevator comes, Elektra positions herself in front of the two of them. Wants everyone’s eyes on her, even if it means a few seconds without cover. He can respect that, really can, but it’s stupid and dangerous.

 

His nerves are shot to the point where his startle reflex is useless, but not so shot that he’s reached a point of absolute, perfect calm. Instead, it’s still just eating him up inside, shaking like a damn leaf but that’s never been too much of a problem.

 

The ride up is long, almost too damn long but the confined space means his mind can’t just take over and make him bolt. He knows when a fight’s already been won. No way they’re getting out of this one.

 

The elevator stops and he’s actually not sure he’ll be able to take a step forward. Time seems to almost be melting, moving agonizingly slow as the doors slide open.

 

“Are you three  _ finished? _ ”

 

Fisk is alone, which almost seems too easy. Bullseye took out a good chunk of the suits last time, but there’s no way he killed them all. So they have to be somewhere, have to be watching Fisk’s back.

 

“I said: Are. You.  _ Finished?  _ Are you ready to stop throwing a fit? It’s not getting you anywhere,” Fisk kind of sneers, nose wrinkled and hands clenched to fists.

 

Elektra pivots on her feet and he fucking hopes she isn’t stupid enough to try anything just yet. Probably wouldn’t make it more than a few steps forward.

 

The animal glint of rage is back in her eyes, lips pulled back to a snarl showing off a flash of teeth, “You should  _ not  _ have called me a  _ broad.” _

 

“That’s what this is about?” Fisk laughs, damn near shakes the room, “You really need to grow a thicker skin,  _ sweetheart.  _ It’d be a waste for you to only ever use that beautiful face of yours for scowling, but I guess  _ Matthew  _ doesn’t really care about wrinkle lines.”

 

Elektra sets her jaw and Bullseye makes the split second realization that she’s going to get herself killed. It’s a matter of  _ when,  _ not  _ if. _

 

But she’s fast, so he can’t even stop her when she darts forward, sai already in hand. She isn’t shot to death on the spot, so there must not be any suits around. Knowing that doesn’t offer much comfort, just makes him nervous about where they could be.

 

Red moves like he’s gearing up to bolt, too, but by some fucking miracle, Elektra manages to slash her sai across Fisk’s stomach. Cuts through flesh like goddamn butter and by all rights, Fisk should be trying to shovel his intestines back into his body but he’s  _ not. _

 

She didn’t cut deep enough, just made it through a thick layer of fat, kind of pale and wet and wrong amid the blood. Looks like she might’ve made it down to muscle but he can’t exactly tell for sure.

 

“You little  _ bitch,”  _ Fisk spits.

 

She kind of cocks her head to the side, can’t see her face but Bullseye figures she’s smiling. And then Fisk grabs her by the neck, toes barely dragging across the ground as she kicks and gasps. Looks  damn dignified for being strangled.

 

“ _ Elektra _ !”

 

Red finally runs this time around, billy clubs in hand but he doesn’t move like he’s got a plan for this situation.

 

Elektra’s stronger than she looks, though, manages to stab her sai up and through Fisk’s arm. From the angle where Bullseye’s standing, it looks like she got it right between radius and ulna, can’t  move without making things much worse. Red gets him in the shoulder with the billy clubs, but Fisk barely even flinches. Just sucks in air between his teeth and squeezes harder.

 

Her head kind of lolls to the side and Bullseye decides, fuck it. Fuck any kind of agreement about who gets to kill Fisk. If he doesn’t do anything, Fisk’s going to kill her and he’d rather beak trust with Elektra than Red.

 

So he goes for the letter opener on his hip.

 

Lets his mind go blank.

 

Feels it leave his hand, empty space sort of buzzing in his fingertips.

 

There’s a certain sound a projectile makes when it hits meat, varies from material to material, but there’s something special about the sound of metal hitting meat. A nice, dull, thwack.

 

He blinks the world into focus and the letter opener’s embedded in Fisk’s eye socket.

 

Handle barely jutting out an inch, which means it’s gone right through and into the brain.

 

Fisk drops Elektra, which is something, but he shouldn’t even be  _ standing. _

 

She’s smart, for once. Stays down trying to catch her breath instead of going after the sai stuck in Fisk’s arm. He looks damn near consumed with rage, but he’s distracted enough that Red can get another good hit in. Somewhere along the way he strung a length of rope between the billy clubs, seems to be trying to strangle Fisk. 

 

“I, oh God, I don’t think he can die.”

 

“What?” Red stops for a fraction of a second, enough time for Fisk to all but brush him off.

 

And then Fisk turns towards him. Crosses the room in a couple good strides.

 

He should run, but he can’t. Body’s locked up, like it’s still halfway hoping none of this is actually happening.

 

But it is, and Fisk grabs him by the arm, dangling him above the ground. It’d be easy for him to break Bullseye’s wrist like this; he’s caved in people’s heads with his own bare fucking hands before.

 

“There’s a reason no one works with you long term,” Fisk shakes him, like he’s trying to make a point but the only thing it does is threaten to pop his shoulder out of its socket, “You’re a time bomb.”

 

He could swing up, kick Fisk in the face, but there’s no guarantee it’d even help. Might just make things worse.

 

It doesn’t matter much, anyway, he’s probably gonna die. If he doesn’t, he’ll wish he was dead. 

 

His eyes can’t focus on a single point for more than a few seconds and he can’t seem to do much of anything other than staying limp and docile while Fisk moves him around. This isn’t going to be quick, nothing like the way he was choking Elektra. Fisk’s always liked seeing him squirm.

 

The thought’s cut short by the feeling of his nose breaking. How he got to that situation is hazy but he knows his head’s been smashed into the big window, sprawling the penthouse wall, because there’s blood all over the glass.

 

Fisk pulls him back, slams him hard against the glass again. The thunk of flesh and bone against the window sounds a million miles away.

 

He’s crying, maybe, or maybe it’s blood, running down his hairline and across his cheeks.

 

Tries for, ‘ _ why isn’t anyone doing anything? _ ’ but the blood in his mouth is thick, sticking to the back of his airway. By the time he manages to spit some of it out, Fisk’s already gearing up to try and pulverize his skull a third time.

 

Wishes he could just black out, but it never seems to happen when he needs it to.

 

The window’s not gonna break anytime soon; he’ll be broken well before the reinforced glass even starts to crack.

 

But he could speed the process up a bit. Still has the second letter opener and if he could work it into a weak spot…

 

His hands are too slick to even keep a good grip on it, keeps not quite pulling it out of his belt. Odds are, he'll drop it. Or he'll get it in the glass and Fisk'll impale him on it. It's not a good idea but it's an idea.

 

He finally gets some purchase on the letter opener. Holds it as tight as he fucking can when Fisk smashes his head against the wall.

 

He can barely see through the sting of blood in his eyes, but he thinks he can make out the starts of a crack.

 

Now's the best chance he'll get, he's still close to it but not actively being bludgeoned against it. Doesn't even try to throw it, just holds it tight in his fist and bashes it into the window as hard as he can.

 

He's good, but he's got a feeling that it's sheer dumb luck that the letter opener goes right in the weak spot, sends fractures spider-webbing out. 

 

Fisk pauses a second, like he's debating returning the favor on the next turn but a letter opener through  _ his _ eye socket will definitely, actually kill him. It hasn't even set in, fully, he's too lost in trying to  fucking breath through the blood coating the back of his throat. No, he just feels almost perfectly calm. Can't even feel the pain anymore.

 

So he swings up and kicks the letter opener even further into the glass. Makes the fractures even bigger.

 

“Well, since you're so desperate to kill yourself…” Fisk's voice is garbled, miles away.

 

He doesn't even have it in him to tense up in anticipation, he's limp as a ragdoll. Almost has to laugh at how familiar the feeling is.

 

But Fisk doesn't even do him the favor of just finally fucking killing him. He's barely aware of what's happening but he knows the feeling of glass breaking against him and he knows the feeling of weightlessness.

 

Doesn't know how high up he is, doesn't know if he can stick the landing. Did alright from a few floors down but every jump is different. Not to mention the fact that he didn't  _ jump.  _ He's  _ falling. _

 

But there's buildings not too far across the street and Fisk threw him hard enough to break the fucking reinforced glass. Means he's not falling straight down, gonna travel in arc a while before being dragged to the ground and pulped on the sidewalk.

 

He's never been envious of people who can't do what he can but he's kind of reconsidering that now. Those suckers don't know what's coming, not really.

 

Already knows he won't be thrown  _ into  _ the next building over but he won't come close enough to land on it either.

 

But he will come  _ close  _ to it. Can almost touch it, already. 

 

So he reaches out, goes for any part of the structure that’s out far enough to get a handle on.

 

If his arm wasn’t already dislocated, it will be soon, but if he slows down enough the impact won’t  _ kill  _ him. 

 

Feels like the brick’s tearing up his damn hands, but the lower levels have a lot more decorative bullshit to grab onto. It’s not dignified. If he was actually in control of the situation he wouldn’t be floundering like this.

 

He used to be good at this, used to do it to impress.

 

But now, he’s catching part of the siding of the building and holding on for dear fucking life. Tries to take a second to breathe as best he can, but there’s so much blood in his mouth. Since that’s not  working, he settles on steeling himself and dropping the last couple of stories to the ground.

 

It’s not a pretty landing. He manages to not break his ankles, but that’s second nature to him. Tries to recover, get back to his feet, but he just sort of collapses. Stuck the most important landing of his life and there isn’t even a crowd to cheer for it.

 

He’s already kneeling on the ground, so he kind of curls over and retches. Won’t even be able to tell if he’s bleeding internally right away since he’s already swallowed some of it by accident. Keeps spitting and spitting until he can actually inhale without a film of gore coating the opening of his airway.

 

There’s something gnawing at the back of his mind, almost feels like concern. Elektra and Red are nowhere to be seen, but he shouldn’t care, shouldn’t be fucking worried. Neither of them seemed to  keen on stopping him from being beat to death.

 

He hates them, hates himself, hates that they’re the first thing he fucking thinks about as soon as his head’s clear enough to think.

 

As soon as he can breathe, he sets to wiping blood out of his eyes. It’s not an easy feat, it feels like he’s just smearing it around. Head wounds bleed like crazy, he knows that intimately well, and he hasn’t blacked out so he’s not as worried as he could be.

 

He can see again, but he can’t stop wiping at his eyes, knows he’s just making a mess of his face. Barely even notices Fisk standing at the broken window, he’s seeing without seeing, stuck in a loop.

 

The cycle breaks when Fisk jumps. Maybe he’s coming down here to finish Bullseye off for good; the thought wraps around his heart, threatens to choke him. But Fisk doesn’t know how to  _ land,  _ not the right way.

 

Fisk hits the ground hard enough that the concrete cracks around him, but the actual impact sounds muffled, like there’s cotton in his ears.

 

Elektra follows after Fisk, no sign of Matty. She must’ve had a running start because she makes it over to the building Bullseye’s kneeling in front of. Holds onto the roof a second before jumping to another perch, scarf flowing behind her.

 

She’s captivating, moving fluidly in a way that makes him hate her all the more. He watches her all the way to the ground, seems like he’s slipping himself. Means there’s something wrong, lost too much blood, hit his head too hard.

 

The world’s sideways as she moves towards Fisk, getting up but real unsteady about it, like the blood loss finally kicked in.


	23. don't want to hurt me, but see how deep the bullet lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> title comes from 'running up that hill' by kate bush
> 
> this is definitely another chapter that earns the graphic depictions of violence warning, jsyk

He’s still lying on the ground while he watches Elektra lunge for Fisk’s legs. Must’ve got him good because he drops back down, kneeling.

 

Figures she’d go in for the kill but Fisk bats her away like she’s nothing. Bullseye watches her recover, a good ways away, but she’s fast enough to get back before Fisk can actually get up.

 

And then Bullseye’s lying on his back, didn’t even feel himself move which is a  _ problem.  _ But he’s looking up at the sky now, whether he wants to be or not. Only thing getting in the way is Red, face all twisted up, must’ve rolled him over.

 

“Oh,  _ good Lord _ ,” Matty’s breath hitches, whispers, “You’re alive?”

 

“Think so,” the words are thick on his tongue, taste like blood, “Maybe.”

 

He’s almost happy to see Red, happy that he came looking for him. But he shouldn’t be, needs to keep his head straight and remember that nobody helped him. Red just stood by while Fisk tried to kill him. He focuses on that, clings to it like a tether. Doesn’t matter much because by the time he’s back in the here and now, Red’s already helping him up.

 

Pulls him to his feet too damn quickly, makes his head spin, but Red rests both hands on his shoulders, steadies him in place. Feels nice, too nice, so he plays back through the scene in the Hand’s headquarters. Gets his blood boiling again.

 

“How much blood did you lose? Have you lost consciousness?” Red frowns, doesn’t give him time to answer, not that he could anyway.

 

“ _ Fuck you _ ,” he snarls, doesn’t even mean to do it but he spits blood on Matty’s face in the process.

 

The Devil’s eyes are so blank, Bullseye can’t even tell what Red’s thinking as he brings a hand up to wipe the blood away. 

 

Sets to shaking, part from blood loss, part from the feeling that he needs to apologize  _ right now.  _ He never can tell what’s going on behind the mask and it eats him up inside.

 

But he keeps a hold on the anger, only thing keeping him together, and curls his hand into a fist. Tight as he can manage with how disconnected all his limbs feel. Matty’s still talking but none of it’s sinking in.

 

He winds up, fucking cold-cocks Matty as hard as he can, solid left hook that sends him staggering back a step. Matty looks kind of shocked, mouth gaping just slightly.

 

Bullseye stumbles, equilibrium's off and it's all he can do to stay standing. But he's pissed, feeding off it, charging forward at Red. Slams both his fist's against Matty's chest.

 

“WHY DIDN'T YOU  _ HELP  _ ME?” He's not yelling as loud as he'd like to, keeps spitting blood whenever he tries to raise his voice.

 

Red doesn't have an answer but he'd rather have  _ anything,  _ any kind of excuse would be better than silence. So Bullseye shoves him again, can't quite throw Red off his balance.

 

“WHY DIDN'T YOU  _ DO ANYTHING _ ? YOU JUST  _ WATCHED!” _

 

“Bullseye, you need to calm down. This isn't helping--”

 

“NO, FUCK YOU, YOU DON'T GET TO TELL ME TO CALM DOWN,” his voice cracks with the strain.

 

“You're losing a lot of blood,” Red says, kind of soft and gentle and it makes everything worse, “You need to stay still. If you keep moving like this--”

 

“STOP ACTING LIKE YOU'RE  _ WORRIED  _ ABOUT ME!”

 

He gets another good punch in, leaves Red rubbing at the side of his jaw and he's expecting to get hit right back but Matty just stops. It's an opening, so he winds up to get another hit in; misses the mark completely, which scares him more than it oughta. Fist sails right past Matty's face.

 

“ _ Bullseye _ , listen to me,” Red goes stern, kind of forceful, “ _ Ben,  _ you need to stop doing this.”

 

He hates that he goes stock still, hates that the fucking name is the one thing that gets under his skin. Stops him dead in his fucking tracks and leaves his hands sort of hovering like he doesn't know if he should hit Red again.

 

Looks like Matty's relieved, though, face softens up a bit as he grabs Bullseye's wrists. Holds him tight as he squirms but he doesn't fight back too much because he might fall without Matty supporting  him.

 

“Why didn't you  _ help me?  _ Why did you just let that  _ happen?”  _

 

He's lost the strength he had just a few seconds ago. He's fucking livid but he's also tired and the tiredness wins out.

 

Matty lets go of his wrists, puts his hands on Bullseye's shoulders to steady him.

 

“Okay, okay, good. Settle down, okay?”

 

“I hate you,” he whines, kind of leans against Red, “Stop doing this to me.”

 

“Doing what?”

 

It's not fucking fair, Matty doesn't even know what he's done. Doesn't know what he's doing to him, how he's screwing his brain six ways to Sunday.

 

“Jesus fuck, Red, you're--”

 

But Matty goes stock still, he doesn't know why or what's happening and doesn't really care.

 

“Elektra's killing him,” Red's face goes hollow, voice barely there.

 

Bullseye looks over to the side, hands kind of clutching at Red. He's right, but Bullseye knew all along that Elektra was gonna kill Fisk. Looks even closer and he realizes he never thought it'd be like this.

 

She's livid, blood flecked across her face. Slashing and tearing at his skin with the sai to the point that his clothes are soaked in blood. And he's still alive, hands raising up like he's trying to bat her away but she just claws at them until he drops them back down. She’s pinning him down, the great mountain of a man, while she tries to tear him apart.

 

It's downright terrifying, looks like she's gonna eviscerate him. But nothing they did seemed to work, better safe than sorry.

 

“This needs to happen, remember?” His voice is raspy, drawn thin, but he's trying to sound as soft as he can.

 

“Not like this,  _ not like this,”  _ Red's getting worried and now they've switched roles.

 

“Just focus on me, alright,” he says, tries to stop gawking at Elektra trying to gut Fisk.

 

It's not easy, like watching a train wreck. She's just sort of digging into him with her bare hands. Pulling at flesh and viscera like she's not even human. And it hits him, Red can probably hear this, fucking smell it, whatever the fuck he can do.

 

“Yeah, okay, just keep focusing on me, right?” He forces himself to turn back to Red, watching his face as it twists up into a grimace.

 

Red nods, kind of mindless.

 

He doesn't know why he does it, but he moves his hands up, rests them against Matty's cheeks, “Look at me, just keep looking at me.”

 

It's stupid, really. Matty can't even see him and he's selfish enough to admit that he just wants Red to keep looking at him.

 

He's still angry, kind of, but having Red all to himself, having Red need him to help, almost makes up for it.

 

“We have to stop her,” Red's voice cracks.

 

“He'll just get back up and kill us all. Fisk won't hurt anyone else like this.”

 

“No,  _ fuck _ ,” Red shoves him away, “We aren’t playing judge, jury, and executioner.”

 

“You’re just gonna get in the way, Red. Ain’t gonna be pretty.”

 

Shouldn’t be his problem to care, not when he can barely stand on his own, but Red might actually get himself killed. Might get in the way and Elektra might not stop, just like the sack of meat out in the alleyway. So he trails after him, slow enough that his head doesn’t start to swim, that his vision doesn’t start to go spotty.

 

Doesn’t even have to intervene because Matty stops in his tracks a few feet away from Fisk. Not quite close enough for him to go for the ankles, but it makes Bullseye’s stomach drop when he sees Fisk swiping out like he might be able to reach.

 

He’s just a man, or Bullseye  _ thought  _ he was. Fisk should be dead by now, shouldn’t be carrying on like this. Brings a taste of bile to the back of his throat.

 

But Bullseye just stops next to Red, front row seats to watch the show. 

 

Elektra pauses a second, and he finds himself holding his breath while she wipes her hands, half frantic, on her costume. Realizes she doesn’t have the sais on her, both laid on the ground next to Fisk like an afterthought. So she’s trying to clean up, wants a good grip on them.

 

She slides off of Fisk, just for a second, to grab the sais. Pauses like she’s considering what to do now, like it’s just a casual matter instead of life or death.

 

“Bullseye,” she barks, makes him damn near jump out of his skin.

 

Takes him a sec for his mind to catch up to his mouth, “Wh-what?”

 

“Hold him down.”

 

“I,” he can’t quite seem to process it, can’t have heard her right, “Me?”

 

“Yes. Hold him down.”

 

He can’t do this, not really. She’s asking too much. But he’s moving mindlessly, kind of taking her place. Fisk could throw him off in an instant, already threw him through the fucking window, and he gets the sense that what he’s doing is  _ wrong.  _ But she told him to do this, so he’s doing it. Always does what he’s told, makes him a good hire.

 

“Be ready,” Elektra says.

 

“For what?”

 

She crouches down next to Fisk, both sais in hand. They’re back on the clock and she never answers his questions. Oughta get used to it.

 

She leans down right near Fisk’s ear and whispers all sweet-like, “I win.”

 

And then she drags the blade across his neck.

 

Fisk’s whole body tenses, Bullseye can feel it. Doesn’t expect him to reach out, to grab his arm and pull hard. He’s barely aware of the way he shrieks when his arm dislocates, like he’s taken a step to  the side of his body.

 

Elektra grits her teeth, sets her jaw, and cuts deeper.

 

Fisk sets to gurgling, loosens the vice grip on Bullseye’s arm. Could be dying, could be faking it. Nothing makes sense anymore, nothing lines up right. Hates her for setting him down the long path to this here and now.

 

She keeps sawing at his throat, his neck, and he just keeps kicking. Must be getting weaker otherwise he’d’ve bucked Bullseye off by now.

 

He needs something to focus on, something other than the gurgling and the little jolts and jerks of Fisk’s body. Something that’ll stop him from stepping completely outside of himself. So he watches her face, flecked with blood, snarling, wild glint in her eye, watches her work.

 

She’s Judith; Fisk, Holofernes. 

 

And Matty’s on the outside, standing in front of the moment frozen in time.

 

It’s a stupid thing to be thinking about but art makes sense, learned the finicky details ‘cos he didn’t want to get screwed out of a paycheck when he was fencing goods. When it’s good, it all makes  sense, everything fits into the picture just right.

 

He needs the world to make sense, needs something to hold onto.

 

Fisk goes slack underneath him, jars him back into the present. He blinks, eyes focusing on Fisk's head, now hollow eyed. The sai makes contact with bone, cuts between the vertebrae with ease and it's just a matter of one strike more before it's completely disconnected from the body.

 

It's messy, but controlled. The kind of thing he'd charge extra for.

 

Elektra drops the head, heavy thud against the ground, kind of wet.

 

Then she stands up, shaking but it's out of rage instead of fear. She pushes her hair out of her eyes, slicks it back with Fisk's blood, smears it across her face.

 

“It is done.”

 

Bullseye pulls back off the body like he's been burnt. Never was too keen on hanging around after a job's been done. They'll have to figure out where to go now, but he just wants to take a second to breathe.

 

His arm is still fucked, hanging useless at his side. Figures it's as good a time as any to pop it back into place. It's a bad one, lucky his tendons didn't tear and Elektra flinches at the sound of it slipping back into its socket.

 

Red's been awfully quiet so far, wringing his hands with the rosary between his red gloved knuckles.

 

“You alright?”

 

He barely finishes the thought before Red drops to his knees, retching on the sidewalk. He feels bad, really does. Doesn't feel as good to be holding onto his anger when Matty's like this.

 

So Bullseye kneels down next to him, smoothing his hands along Matty's back as softly as he can muster.

 

“Hey, hey, Matty, you're alright.”

 

But he's shaking, maybe sobbing even, between heaving.

 

“This happened to me a time or two,” he soothes, voice gentle, “Back when I was still green. It's okay. You're okay.”

 

It's a lie, only time he's ever done this was when he was fourteen and that was just nerves and the fact he opened his fucking eyes, knew exactly who killed him, knew what Bullseye did to him.

 

Doesn't help much, no matter how pretty of a lie it is. Seems to set Matty off more. Sounds like he's going to choke.

 

“Jesus, Elektra, come do something.”

 

He's surrendering by asking her, but he can't do anything helpful, anything  _ good. _

 

“No, no, I  _ cannot _ ,” she sounds younger, softer, like she didn't just fucking decapitate someone, “All the blood. I… I will make it worse.”

 

She's right, like always. Fucking know it all. But Matty doesn't want him, never has, and he's not getting anywhere.

 

Can't even enjoy the fact that it looks like she's about to cry, trying to scrub the blood off her face but just making a mess of it.

 

“I don't know, just  _ talk  _ to him or  _ something. _ ”

 

She nods, lips digging into her teeth and he keeps rubbing circles on Matty's back.

 

“It is over, no more running. No more hiding,” she's got that scary even tone to her voice, doesn't sound comforting worth shit but Matty's relaxing, “No one else will get hurt. You are helping, this is helping. You did not do this, but you are helping everyone.”

 

They're all the same, really. All belong together. It's something like fate.

 

Matty's so vulnerable, so broken up, underneath his hands. Maybe  _ this _ is what he wanted all along, just kept looking in the wrong places, taking the wrong paths.

 

He's settled enough to be able to talk, raspy and desperate, “It wasn't supposed to be like this, it  _ wasn't.” _

 

“Killing's dirty work, Matty, always is.”

 

“I didn't want him  _ dead,  _ I wanted to make sure he couldn't  _ hurt anyone.” _

 

“And now he can't,” Bullseye says, figures he needs to hear it, “Besides, there's no blood on your hands.”

 

“Matthew,” Elektra always says his full name when she's trying to be gentle, “I know that this is difficult, but we are very exposed right now.”

 

They need to get moving, she's got the right idea, but Red's still in a bad way. Won't be able to get too far, but they're right in front of Fisk's building. Fisk's penthouse probably has a shower and as soon as she's cleaned off, Matty'll be right back in her arms. But he suggests it anyway.

 

“We oughta just go back up there, hole up a while, catch our breath.”

 

Elektra nods, quick as lightning. Doesn't want to admit he had a good idea.

 

“You alright to move, Matty?”

 

Red shrugs away from him, kind of scowling, “I don't need your  _ help. _ I can get up on my own.”

 

It stings, really, but this is the Red he knows. 

 

Means everything’s falling back into place. 

 

Red stands up, looks real uncertain about it but he stays on his feet.

 

Bullseye follows in suit, once he knows Red’s not gonna collapse. He’s somewhere between shaky and stiff, bone deep ache in his joints. Tomorrow is gonna be even worse than today, once the adrenaline wears off and the bruises rise up.

 

Elektra doesn’t look smug, figured she would but she just looks hollow, scraped clean from the inside out. She’s the one who sets it all in motion, starts walking towards the building. It’s enough to snap Matty out of his haze, trails after her like a shadow. And he’s always the odd one out, follows them anyway.

 

* * *

The lobby’s a damn crypt, bodies still on the floor, only sound is their footsteps, rattling off the walls and filling up the space. Someone’s gonna have to clean up the suits. Fisk won’t be able to take care of it.

 

But that doesn’t matter right now. Nothing really seems to.

 

Someone gets the elevator. Maybe it’s Elektra, maybe it’s him. Red’s still pale as a ghost; hasn’t reconsidered his stance on being helped, though.

 

It’s eerie, riding back up. Feels like deja fuckin’ vu. Heart sets to racing and everything starts to ache all at once. 

 

( _ It won’t play out like last time. Won’t play out like that ever again.) _

 

The doors open and there’s no one in there. Doesn’t do much to settle his nerves but it’s something. The penthouse looks a lot bigger without Fisk in there and his heart kind of drops when his eyes catch on the broken window.

 

It’s all wrong, nothing is in the right place. It’s out of order, routine brought to a grinding halt.

 

He’s moving on autopilot, barely even realizes he’s made his way behind Fisk’s desk. Thumbs through the rolodex but none of the contacts really stick out. He’s gotta call the cleaners. Probably needs someone to fix the window, too.

 

And there’s all the blood on the ground. It’s unsightly, makes him feel restless. Can’t let anyone see it. Ought to clean it up, but he hasn’t even cleaned himself up. So he’ll start there. Figure out where the fuck the bathroom is in this apartment and go from there.

 

He moves from room to room, never made it too far into the apartment in all his time working for Fisk. Almost half a decade at this point.

 

Office space leads to a short hallway; first door off to the side is a closet, next is a bedroom. Gritty layer of dust covering everything, even the floor. His stomach twists when he realizes it was probably a kid’s room. Small bed, light colored walls, couple of models lined up on white shelves.

 

Didn’t even know Fisk had a kid, obviously hasn’t been here in a good while. He doesn’t even want to ask the million dollar question, doesn’t want to know where the kid is. Already knows more than he wants to just thinking about the way Fisk got under his skin, kept him docile and obedient.

 

The taste of blood in the back of his mouth just makes it worse. 

 

So he shuts the door, slowly. Careful not to disturb any more dust than he already has. He’s antsy, restless, feels like he let something out that was supposed to be kept in there. It’s a dangerous train of thought, gotta keep his head clear and stop chasing after ghosts.

 

The next door is already open, just slightly, and he’s hoping there’s no one else around, that this isn’t a trap, because he hasn’t been this run ragged in a long time.

 

It’s the master bedroom and he relaxes when he sees it’s empty. Huge bed, more windows, probably just as reinforced as the ones in the office. Master bedroom means a master bathroom and he’s fucking hoping there’s some kind of first aid kit in there.

 

He’s been moving a lot slower than he’s used to, trying to not tear any of the wounds open. It’s almost mechanical, the way he opens the door, starts rifling through drawers before even looking in the mirror. If he starts assessing the damage without all the things he needs, he’ll get lost on his way to patching himself up. Learned that the hard way.

 

Pulls apart the cupboards until he finds gauze, an all but used up roll of medical tape, iodine and peroxide, little set of scissors, tweezers. Would prefer something to stitch any of the deeper cuts, but it’s not his lucky day.

 

He lays all the tools out on the marble counter and finally lets himself look in the mirror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, this is the penultimate chapter!! i'm tooling away at an epilogue of sorts right now but in the meantime, come say hi on tumblr! i'm bullseyemutual over there!


	24. and the world screams, "kiss me, son of god"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> title comes from 'kiss me, son of god' by they might be giants
> 
> now that it's done, you get to feel the great gaping empty feeling of NOT having this fic to look forward to constantly that *I* had after finishing writing it, lol
> 
> if you want, you can come say hi to me on tumblr, i'm bullseyemutual

The first thing he notices isn’t any of his wounds. No, the first thing he notices is Elektra.

 

Damn near jumps out of his skin when he catches her eyes.

 

Standing back behind him, reflected over his shoulder in the mirror. Glaring fucking daggers into his soul with her face still bloody, but the rest of her is too, now. Her hair’s slicked down, sticking to her skin in little tendrils, swallowing her up like it’s got a life of its own. Looks like she wants to throttle him, but she always does.

 

Another fucking hallucination. Bit heavy handed on the symbolism, but still a hallucination.

 

So he leans closer to the mirror, close enough that the background falls out of focus. Starts running an inventory on things.

 

  * Nose is busted (again)
  * Two less teeth than usual (one lost in the fight with spider-man, one lost when being beat to death, never counts the gap he always has)
  * Too much blood to tell how many cuts he’s got



 

Well, there’s a starting place. He starts the water running, keeps trying to ignore the feeling of eyes on his back.

 

Doesn’t look away from the sink while he fumbles around for a wash cloth. It’s a lighter color, probably gonna stain, but he can get blood out of most anything.

 

“ _Bullseye.”_

 

He can still see her, out of the corner of his eyes, so he climbs up onto the counter. Just has to get closer, get real stubborn about it.

 

Soaks the wash cloth in water and starts working at the blood. Kind of winces, probably ran it too hot but he just has to be careful and not scrub too hard. It clears away most of the blood, not the real caked on shit, but he can deal with that later.

 

He sets the wash cloth aside, stares right into the eyes of his reflection, still ringed in bruises. There aren’t as many cuts on his face as he’d expect. Most of the blood came from his nose and a big gash on his forehead. Lips are split, too, but nothing’s so deep it needs stitches.

 

It’s only when he goes to open the bottle of peroxide that he realizes his hands are royally fucked up. Not quite bleeding, but they look raw from trying to catch himself on the building across the way. He needs new gloves, hasn’t found the old ones yet. Might not ever, but he’s holding out hope.

 

That’s the new step two, not trying to clean off the cuts on his face. He manages to get the bottle undone with one hand holding it as he twists the cap off with his teeth. Tenses up when he pours it over his hands, one first, then the other. Then he wraps each one in gauze, only covers the palms ‘cos he still needs his full range of motion in his fingers and they’re covered in calluses anyway.

 

Then he gets back to cleaning off the gash on his forehead. Wets the cloth again and presses it against his skin. Lets his eyes flutter shut and just focuses on the warmth of the washcloth.

 

It’s good. So good he damn near falls asleep, only realizes what’s happening when his head hits against the mirror. Jerks upright, heart beating out of his fucking chest, but it’s nothing.

 

At least the gash on his forehead isn’t crusted in blood anymore. He dabs at it with iodine, presses a clean pad of gauze against it, rips off a couple strips of tape with his free hand and his teeth.

 

His face is as good as it’s gonna get, nothing’s bleeding and the only big cut is covered. There’s blood in his hair, short as it is, but he can deal with that later. He’s gotta make sure everything else is okay first.

 

Trying to get out of the suit fucking hurts, arm twisted back to try and catch the zipper. He’s got enough sense to not use the one that was just dislocated, but it’s still a hellacious experience. There’s an ache kind of burning across his ribs and the cuts from the glass sting when he moves too much.

 

But he gets a hold of the zipper, pulls it all the way down and lets his arm go slack. Needs a minute to collect himself because his vision’s starting to go spotty. Tries to steady himself, but he can’t even breathe through his nose, can’t get his heart to even out. Closes his eyes, focuses on centering, an internal balancing act of sorts.

 

Does this weird full body shiver but he straightens up and opens his eyes, “Okay.”

 

One step at a time. He pulls off the first sleeve, slow, painstaking process. It doesn’t look like there are any new chunks of glass in his arm, small miracles and all that jazz. Repeats the process with the other sleeve; this arm’s more tender, gonna bruise where it was pulled out of the socket and where Fisk grabbed him.

 

His undershirt is crusted in blood, doesn’t know where it came from and he probably won’t until it’s off. It’s a waste to cut it off, but the idea of raising his arms over his head right now makes him wince, so he grabs the scissors. Cuts it up the middle and peels it off.

 

The fabric rests around his waist and he continues the inventory.

 

  * Ache in his ribs isn’t sharp enough to be a slipped rib
  * Bruises are already starting to rise up on his chest and back, visible even through the dried blood
  * Dislocated arm moves right, feels like it’s back in its socket when he presses his fingers against it
  * Blood on his undershirt came from a cut across his stomach



 

He starts with his arms, looks like some of the cuts opened back up. He’s careful to be gentle when he’s running the washcloth over them, lets them both air dry as he lightly rests his fingers against a couple of the real nasty ones.

 

He’s running hot, too hot to tell if it’s the wound that’s hot, which is bad. Gonna have to swallow his pride and ask Elektra if any of them look particularly red.

 

“That’s a problem,” he mutters to himself, finds it helps to talk aloud.

 

Can’t deal with an infection, not now.

 

And it hits him, he’s gonna have to figure out doctors now.

 

Fisk took care of everything, vetting them, making sure they won’t ask too many questions, setting up appointments. Even took care of the paperwork, got him all set up with Benjamin Poindexter; only time he’s ever Benjamin is for the bank or the hospital.

 

He knows how to patch himself up pretty damn well, always figured he was pretty self-sufficient. But he’s not, he’s stupidly, dangerously dependant. Fucking hates himself for it, too.

 

Arms are dry now, probably need to bandage them up properly, not just gauze for the bigger cuts. He’s on a roll, though, so he starts cleaning off all the blood on his stomach. Has to rinse out the washcloth halfway through, gets lost in watching the water until it runs clear.

 

And then he finishes cleaning off his stomach, his chest, hopes there isn’t too much blood on his back because he can’t twist his arms enough to clean it off. The cut doesn’t look that bad, probably bled a lot from how much he was moving around. He’ll have to take it easy the next couple of days, damn lucky it didn’t tear open the stab wound from Elektra.

 

He bandages it up tight, would prefer to stitch it, just in case, but he can’t. Has to get off the counter to strip the rest of the suit off but his whole body feels stiff. He slips off, leaves smears of blood on the granite, as carefully as he can.

 

Just has to step out of the suit and finish up the process, legs are probably only bruised but he can’t leave it unfinished.

 

“ _Bullseye.”_

 

He whips around, damn ready to tell the hallucination to fuck off already, but Elektra and Red are in the bathtub.

 

Handsome’s resting her arms against the edge of it, hair floating spread out around her, nose wrinkled like she’s halfway to snarling.

 

“Get. Out.”

 

He bites at his thumbnail, mostly out of habit, tastes like copper, “Can… Can I?”

 

“ _Now,”_ Elektra growls.

 

Figured that was the answer, but he’s always been prone to wishful thinking. High tails it out of there, shuts the door behind him but he doesn’t go far. Just sits with his back to the wall outside the bathroom.

 

They were there the whole fucking time. He really needs to get his head screwed on right. Can’t tell what’s real and what isn’t anymore.

 

“What was _that?”_

 

He can hear Matty through the door.

 

“I could hear him there, and he was _talking_ , but there was something _wrong_ about it.”

 

He’s fine, he’s good, he has to be.

 

More disappointed than he expected, though. Never thought she’d let him join them, even with how stupidly oversized the bath is. But he’s never seen Matty that vulnerable, that relaxed, before. He kind of hates how close they are, how comfortable they are around each other.

 

He gets up, figures he needs something to do before he goes entirely stir crazy. The suit hangs low on his hips and he finishes the routine. Slips out of it, checks over his legs as best he can. Pulls off his underwear, too, leaves him completely naked but it’s better than putting the suit back on. Hasn’t been able to get well and truly clean in a good while.

 

Supposes he’ll stay like that a while; he’d rather die than put on any of the clothes left in the apartment. Couldn’t fit into Fisk’s, anyway.

 

He got off most of the blood, can see that in the trio of floor length mirrors set into the wall next to the closet. The lighting’s supposed to be flattering, he thinks, but it misses the mark completely.

 

Just makes the menagerie of fucked up bruises stand out quite nicely, shadows playing off of the places where his bones show through. The hollows of his hips jutting out, the impression of ribs underneath his skin. The slight curve of his breast, only soft thing about him, it seems. Muscles all pulled taught, slim, barely visible, makes him look unassuming. The hollow of his eyes, can’t tell the difference between dark circles and bruises. Cranes his neck over his shoulder to get an eyeful of the fresh, angry bruises on his back.

 

He wonders who the woman was. Had to be one, between the way the bathroom looks, the kid's room, the mirrors by the closet. Wonders if she's ever stood where he is, figuring out what bruises you oughta cover up and what ones are better hidden under a long-sleeve shirt. Makes him shiver like someone just stepped over his grave.

 

He looks clean, but he still feels grimy. Sets his teeth on edge, but Red and Handsome are hogging the bathroom and he’s in too much pain to bother waiting.

 

So he settles into the bed, just as oversized as everything else in the penthouse. Rests on his stomach, on top of the blankets. The mattress is pretty soft, but any weight on his back is gonna make it worse.

 

He figures Red and Handsome will wake him up whenever they’re done. Hasn’t slept nearly enough lately.

 

* * *

 

It’s damn near completely dark when he wakes, comes to when Matty settles into the bed. Elektra follows after, sounds like she’s on the far end of the bed. Doesn’t move a muscle, pretends he’s still asleep because maybe then, he’ll get to stay.

 

He waits until they’re both still, rolls over on his side to see her resting her head against Red, tucked under his chin. Both eyes open, watching him.

 

He’s too tired to put up a fight, but he’s also too tired to leave.

 

“I know you’re not asleep,” Matty says, eyes still closed, “Either of you.”

 

There’s a drawn out period of silence, doesn’t seem like either of them know what to say.

 

“What are we going to do?” Red asks.

 

“Nobody’s around to give the suits orders. They’ll probably give up eventually,” Bullseye drawls, doesn’t want to be doing this right now.

 

“Eventually is not a guarantee,” Elektra cuts in, words sharp.

 

“Well,” he purses his lips, thinks a second, “We could tell everyone to stop. Settle down a bit. Boots said we’ve got people on our side and we all live here, all want it to still be standing at the end of the day.”

 

“And if we can prevent Fisk’s men from causing any more damage, Matt, you may be able to speak with your companions.”

 

Red kind of hums, seems like he’s thinking it over, “I think some of them could listen to me, maybe. If I can rebuild some of that trust. Not Monica, though, not after what _you_ pulled.”

 

“We had to get away,” Bullseye whines.

 

“It is done, Matt, we cannot change that.”

 

Red sighs, but he lets the subject drop. Has to mean he isn’t too mad. But the room kind of slips into silence, not quite heavy, not quite comfortable. The light’s low enough that he can only just make out the silhouette of Matty’s body, makes it easier to work up the nerve to move a bit closer. Not touching, not as close as Elektra, doesn’t feel right to do that.

 

But he’s close enough to feel the heat radiating off of Red, kind of languishes in it. Almost flinches when Matty rests a hand across his back. It feels wrong, exact mirror of what he’s doing with Elektra and he’s half worried the wires are getting crossed again, Red’s making another mistake.

 

“We are in danger, you must know that,” Elektra speaks up, can’t let the moment last too long.

 

He knows, deep down in his gut. Didn’t plan head, didn’t think they’d get this far. Jury’s out on whether Matty knows or not; he doesn’t answer, just kind of ghosts his hands over Bullseye’s back. Must be doing the same thing to Elektra, fingers tangled in her hair.

 

“We did half of the Hand’s work for them,” there’s a hint of anger in her voice, “They wanted Fisk incapacitated, unable to oppose them. They want to control all of the city.”

 

“And now there’s a gap,” Bullseye finishes, knew it would always come to this.

 

“Someone is going to take his place,” Elektra’s damn near pleading.

 

“Right now _all_ we need to worry about is making sure nobody else gets killed.”

 

Red’s a bleeding heart optimist, alright. People are always getting killed. But it’s a good sign that it still shines through, means Matty’s still whole, means the Devil isn’t the only thing left. It’s the lawyer side of Red, fuckin’ pragmatist.

 

“We could take it.”

 

He sort of lets it hang in the air, could elaborate but he wants to test the waters.

 

Red stops stroking his back, muscles pulled tight as a drum, “Are you out of your mind?”

 

“You wanna make sure nobody else dies, right? If you’re pulling the strings, you make the rules. Same logic as asking all the people who think I’m in charge of this to make sure nobody gets hurt by the suits.”

 

“I’m _not_ taking over as the _Kingpin_ of New York City,” Red scowls.

 

“ _You_ wouldn’t be. We’d all be taking over. You need people who’ll do what you don’t, or can’t, or whatever.”

 

Elektra sighs, long and drawn out, “He is right.”

 

“Fisk’s got pigs on his payroll, you can clean that up. Fisk’s got half the thieves and killers in the city under his wing, you can stop ‘em from hurting innocents.”

 

“We can't do this.”

 

“It's about control, isn't it? Your whole thing,” he knows that much, doesn't quite get the Devil yet but he's hoping he'll have time to pick his brain, “This is control. More than you'd ever get in court or patrolling. I know these people and we're bound to be better than Fisk.”

 

Matty doesn't have to know that none of them are too keen on him, just think he's crazy or stupid. But they _listened_ to him, it's how they ended up in this whole clusterfuck.

 

He's half expecting Elektra to shoot him down, but she doesn't. Quiet makes him nervous, so he just keeps talking, hopes it settles Matty down.

 

“We handle everything, right? We get everyone in place, keep 'em in line. Make the whole thing run smoothly. You just gotta figure out where we need manpower. You strongarm people all on your lonesome, it's the same thing but bigger. Besides, it could be fun.”

 

Matty's still touching him and it's all perfect. He doesn't want this role, never wanted to climb the ladder. Too much responsibility, too unpredictable. But he wants to stay like this forever.

 

“We don't have the money to fund something like this,” Red speaks up after a drawn out silence.

 

“I was a thief before this, Red.”

 

“I still have the estate,” Elektra sounds small, almost sad, “I have not touched it.”

 

Matty sighs, long, drawn out. He moves closer, careful not to brush up against Elektra when he rests a hand on Red's hip. There are rules to this, only knows the first one so far: don't touch Elektra.

 

Bullseye sighs, tries to work up the never to speak, “Everything’s not gonna just go back to normal.”

 

It stings to finally admit it aloud, but Red’s gotta know how things are gonna play out. Can’t go back to work, he’s a wanted man; can’t go back to the streets, no one trusts the Devil anymore. Has to find a new way to get by.

 

He’s got nothing left to say after that. Lets the silence weigh down the room. It feels final, feels like they’re mourning something.

 

The feeling of Matty’s hand against his back is nice, cool against the bruises, and he’s still fucking tired. Feels like he could sleep for a week but he’s too aware of the fact that they’re in Fisk’s bed to really settle into sleep again.

 

Elektra’s still watching him, more curious than angry, face barely legible in the dark. She’s got questions, ones he probably can’t answer, ones he’s probably asking himself. But it’s a perfect, self-contained moment right now.

 

Doesn’t want it to end, but it has to, eventually. This isn’t the destination, just a stop on the way.

 

He wants to fall asleep like this, wouldn’t even have to wake up. Wants to live inside of the loop of this moment, Red’s hand on his back, stroking over his skin, on repeat for an eternity.

 

Matty tenses up, pulls his arm back like he’s been burnt. Elektra rolls off of him, kind of scowling but she doesn’t say anything. Does it just in time for Red to bolt upright, chest heaving.

 

Bullseye thought he’d be ready for the moment to end, but this is too soon, leaves him wanting, feeling of a phantom limb against him.

 

But he gets why it happens, hears the start of something rhythmic overhead. Sits up next to Red and Elektra follows in suit as it keeps getting louder. Constant, beating like a drum. He thinks he knows it, but he can’t quite place it.

 

He knows it doesn’t belong here, sounds like a warzone, sounds like--

 

“Choppers,” he whispers, “ _Fuck_ , the guard’s here.”

 

Almost forgot about the time crunch. It’s real, actually happening. They’ll have to stop a massacre in the morning.

 

Elektra’s worrying at her lip, bathed in the harsh glow of searchlights, “We cannot come back from this.”

 

She’s just stating the obvious, but something about it makes his heart drop. It’s the finality, he thinks.

 

There’s so many of them moving overhead, didn’t think the three of them were worth all that trouble. They’ll have to make contact with someone, anyone, in the morning. Put a stop to all of the fighting.

 

He wonders if any of the choppers have seen Fisk’s body. Probably not because nobody’s stopped.

 

Red’s kind of grabbing at his shoulder, seems to be doing the same to Elektra, like he needs something to keep him from drowning. The searchlights keep flicking in and out, shifting the room between light and dark. Covers Red’s hand with his own, almost mindlessly.

 

He’s watching the windows, sprawling across the wall, not really taking much of anything in. Doesn’t know how they’ll be able to sleep at all tonight between the light and the racket. Almost funny how it feels like that’s actually an important problem right now.

 

And it hits him, it’s snowing. Soft and gentle, drifting between the beams of light, the choppers cutting through the air. First snow of the season. Been too warm to stick around all that long, but it has to be a sign. Fuck if he knows what it means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, about that ending note! in new york in 1982, the first snow of the season happened december 12th, 8 days after a record high temp of 72 degrees fahrenheit and that seemed like a VERY good note to end the fic on, which kind of became my timetable for when this is taking place. late november to early december, both of which were unusually mild. the first snowstorm of the season maxed out at 3 inches and the combined snowfall of the next 8 weeks didn't even add up to that.


End file.
